SARTOR RESARTUS:  The Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdrockh
By Thomas Carlyle.



Considering our present advanced state of culture, and how the Torch of
Science has now been brandished and borne about, with more or less effect,
for five thousand years and upwards; how, in these times especially, not
only the Torch still burns, and perhaps more fiercely than ever, but
innumerable Rushlights, and Sulphur-matches, kindled thereat, are also
glancing in every direction, so that not the smallest cranny or dog-hole in
Nature or Art can remain unilluminated,—it might strike the reflective
mind with some surprise that hitherto little or nothing of a fundamental
character, whether in the way of Philosophy or History, has been written on
the subject of Clothes.

Our Theory of Gravitation is as good as perfect:  Lagrange, it is well
known, has proved that the Planetary System, on this scheme, will endure
forever; Laplace, still more cunningly, even guesses that it could not have
been made on any other scheme.  Whereby, at least, our nautical Logbooks
can be better kept; and water-transport of all kinds has grown more
commodious.  Of Geology and Geognosy we know enough:  what with the labors
of our Werners and Huttons, what with the ardent genius of their disciples,
it has come about that now, to many a Royal Society, the Creation of a
World is little more mysterious than the cooking of a dumpling; concerning
which last, indeed, there have been minds to whom the question, How the
apples were got in, presented difficulties.  Why mention our disquisitions
on the Social Contract, on the Standard of Taste, on the Migrations of the
Herring?  Then, have we not a Doctrine of Rent, a Theory of Value;
Philosophies of Language, of History, of Pottery, of Apparitions, of
Intoxicating Liquors?  Man's whole life and environment have been laid open
and elucidated; scarcely a fragment or fibre of his Soul, Body, and
Possessions, but has been probed, dissected, distilled, desiccated, and
scientifically decomposed:  our spiritual Faculties, of which it appears
there are not a few, have their Stewarts, Cousins, Royer Collards:  every
cellular, vascular, muscular Tissue glories in its Lawrences, Majendies,

How, then, comes it, may the reflective mind repeat, that the grand Tissue
of all Tissues, the only real Tissue, should have been quite overlooked by
Science,—the vestural Tissue, namely, of woollen or other cloth; which
Man's Soul wears as its outmost wrappage and overall; wherein his whole
other Tissues are included and screened, his whole Faculties work, his
whole Self lives, moves, and has its being?  For if, now and then, some
straggling broken-winged thinker has cast an owl's glance into this obscure
region, the most have soared over it altogether heedless; regarding Clothes
as a property, not an accident, as quite natural and spontaneous, like the
leaves of trees, like the plumage of birds.  In all speculations they have
tacitly figured man as a Clothed Animal; whereas he is by nature a Naked
Animal; and only in certain circumstances, by purpose and device, masks
himself in Clothes.  Shakespeare says, we are creatures that look before
and after:  the more surprising that we do not look round a little, and see
what is passing under our very eyes.

But here, as in so many other cases, Germany, learned, indefatigable,
deep-thinking Germany comes to our aid.  It is, after all, a blessing that,
in these revolutionary times, there should be one country where abstract
Thought can still take shelter; that while the din and frenzy of Catholic
Emancipations, and Rotten Boroughs, and Revolts of Paris, deafen every
French and every English ear, the German can stand peaceful on his
scientific watch-tower; and, to the raging, struggling multitude here and
elsewhere, solemnly, from hour to hour, with preparatory blast of cow-horn,
emit his Horet ihr Herren und lasset's Euch sagen; in other words, tell
the Universe, which so often forgets that fact, what o'clock it really is.
Not unfrequently the Germans have been blamed for an unprofitable
diligence; as if they struck into devious courses, where nothing was to be
had but the toil of a rough journey; as if, forsaking the gold-mines of
finance and that political slaughter of fat oxen whereby a man himself
grows fat, they were apt to run goose-hunting into regions of bilberries
and crowberries, and be swallowed up at last in remote peat-bogs.  Of that
unwise science, which, as our Humorist expresses it,

                   "By geometric scale
     Doth take the size of pots of ale;"

still more, of that altogether misdirected industry, which is seen
vigorously thrashing mere straw, there can nothing defensive be said.  In
so far as the Germans are chargeable with such, let them take the
consequence.  Nevertheless be it remarked, that even a Russian steppe has
tumult and gold ornaments; also many a scene that looks desert and
rock-bound from the distance, will unfold itself, when visited, into rare
valleys.  Nay, in any case, would Criticism erect not only finger-posts and
turnpikes, but spiked gates and impassable barriers, for the mind of man?
It is written, "Many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be
increased."  Surely the plain rule is, Let each considerate person have his
way, and see what it will lead to.  For not this man and that man, but all
men make up mankind, and their united tasks the task of mankind.  How often
have we seen some such adventurous, and perhaps much-censured wanderer
light on some out-lying, neglected, yet vitally momentous province; the
hidden treasures of which he first discovered, and kept proclaiming till
the general eye and effort were directed thither, and the conquest was
completed;—thereby, in these his seemingly so aimless rambles, planting
new standards, founding new habitable colonies, in the immeasurable
circumambient realm of Nothingness and Night!  Wise man was he who
counselled that Speculation should have free course, and look fearlessly
towards all the thirty-two points of the compass, whithersoever and
howsoever it listed.

Perhaps it is proof of the stunted condition in which pure Science,
especially pure moral Science, languishes among us English; and how our
mercantile greatness, and invaluable Constitution, impressing a political
or other immediately practical tendency on all English culture and
endeavor, cramps the free flight of Thought,—that this, not Philosophy of
Clothes, but recognition even that we have no such Philosophy, stands here
for the first time published in our language.  What English intellect could
have chosen such a topic, or by chance stumbled on it?  But for that same
unshackled, and even sequestered condition of the German Learned, which
permits and induces them to fish in all manner of waters, with all manner
of nets, it seems probable enough, this abtruse Inquiry might, in spite of
the results it leads to, have continued dormant for indefinite periods.
The Editor of these sheets, though otherwise boasting himself a man of
confirmed speculative habits, and perhaps discursive enough, is free to
confess, that never, till these last months, did the above very plain
considerations, on our total want of a Philosophy of Clothes, occur to him;
and then, by quite foreign suggestion.  By the arrival, namely, of a new
Book from Professor Teufelsdrockh of Weissnichtwo; treating expressly of
this subject, and in a style which, whether understood or not, could not
even by the blindest be overlooked.  In the present Editor's way of
thought, this remarkable Treatise, with its Doctrines, whether as
judicially acceded to, or judicially denied, has not remained without

"Die Kleider, ihr Werden und Wirken (Clothes, their Origin and
Influence):  von Diog. Teufelsdrockh, J. U. D. etc.  Stillschweigen und
Cognie.  Weissnichtwo, 1831.

"Here," says the Weissnichtwo'sche Anzeiger, "comes a Volume of that
extensive, close-printed, close-meditated sort, which, be it spoken with
pride, is seen only in Germany, perhaps only in Weissnichtwo.  Issuing from
the hitherto irreproachable Firm of Stillschweigen and Company, with every
external furtherance, it is of such internal quality as to set Neglect at
defiance....  A work," concludes the well-nigh enthusiastic Reviewer,
"interesting alike to the antiquary, the historian, and the philosophic
thinker; a masterpiece of boldness, lynx-eyed acuteness, and rugged
independent Germanism and Philanthropy (derber Kerndeutschheit und
Menschenliebe); which will not, assuredly, pass current without opposition
in high places; but must and will exalt the almost new name of
Teufelsdrockh to the first ranks of Philosophy, in our German Temple of

Mindful of old friendship, the distinguished Professor, in this the first
blaze of his fame, which however does not dazzle him, sends hither a
Presentation-copy of his Book; with compliments and encomiums which modesty
forbids the present Editor to rehearse; yet without indicated wish or hope
of any kind, except what may be implied in the concluding phrase:  Mochte
es (this remarkable Treatise) auch im Brittischen Boden gedeihen!


If for a speculative man, "whose seedfield," in the sublime words of the
Poet, "is Time," no conquest is important but that of new ideas, then might
the arrival of Professor Teufelsdrockh's Book be marked with chalk in the
Editor's calendar.  It is indeed an "extensive Volume," of boundless,
almost formless contents, a very Sea of Thought; neither calm nor clear, if
you will; yet wherein the toughest pearl-diver may dive to his utmost
depth, and return not only with sea-wreck but with true orients.

Directly on the first perusal, almost on the first deliberate inspection,
it became apparent that here a quite new Branch of Philosophy, leading to
as yet undescried ulterior results, was disclosed; farther, what seemed
scarcely less interesting, a quite new human Individuality, an almost
unexampled personal character, that, namely, of Professor Teufelsdrockh the
Discloser.  Of both which novelties, as far as might be possible, we
resolved to master the significance.  But as man is emphatically a
proselytizing creature, no sooner was such mastery even fairly attempted,
than the new question arose:  How might this acquired good be imparted to
others, perhaps in equal need thereof; how could the Philosophy of Clothes,
and the Author of such Philosophy, be brought home, in any measure, to the
business and bosoms of our own English Nation?  For if new-got gold is said
to burn the pockets till it be cast forth into circulation, much more may
new truth.

Here, however, difficulties occurred.  The first thought naturally was to
publish Article after Article on this remarkable Volume, in such widely
circulating Critical Journals as the Editor might stand connected with, or
by money or love procure access to.  But, on the other hand, was it not
clear that such matter as must here be revealed, and treated of, might
endanger the circulation of any Journal extant?  If, indeed, all
party-divisions in the State could have been abolished, Whig, Tory, and
Radical, embracing in discrepant union; and all the Journals of the Nation
could have been jumbled into one Journal, and the Philosophy of Clothes
poured forth in incessant torrents therefrom, the attempt had seemed
possible.  But, alas, what vehicle of that sort have we, except Fraser's
Magazine?  A vehicle all strewed (figuratively speaking) with the maddest
Waterloo-Crackers, exploding distractively and destructively, wheresoever
the mystified passenger stands or sits; nay, in any case, understood to be,
of late years, a vehicle full to overflowing, and inexorably shut!
Besides, to state the Philosophy of Clothes without the Philosopher, the
ideas of Teufelsdrockh without something of his personality, was it not to
insure both of entire misapprehension?  Now for Biography, had it been
otherwise admissible, there were no adequate documents, no hope of
obtaining such, but rather, owing to circumstances, a special despair.
Thus did the Editor see himself, for the while, shut out from all public
utterance of these extraordinary Doctrines, and constrained to revolve
them, not without disquietude, in the dark depths of his own mind.

So had it lasted for some months; and now the Volume on Clothes, read and
again read, was in several points becoming lucid and lucent; the
personality of its Author more and more surprising, but, in spite of all
that memory and conjecture could do, more and more enigmatic; whereby the
old disquietude seemed fast settling into fixed discontent,—when
altogether unexpectedly arrives a Letter from Herr Hofrath Heuschrecke, our
Professor's chief friend and associate in Weissnichtwo, with whom we had
not previously corresponded.  The Hofrath, after much quite extraneous
matter, began dilating largely on the "agitation and attention" which the
Philosophy of Clothes was exciting in its own German Republic of Letters;
on the deep significance and tendency of his Friend's Volume; and then, at
length, with great circumlocution, hinted at the practicability of
conveying "some knowledge of it, and of him, to England, and through
England to the distant West:"  a work on Professor Teufelsdrockh "were
undoubtedly welcome to the Family, the National, or any other of those
patriotic Libraries, at present the glory of British Literature;" might
work revolutions in Thought; and so forth;—in conclusion, intimating not
obscurely, that should the present Editor feel disposed to undertake a
Biography of Teufelsdrockh, he, Hofrath Heuschrecke, had it in his power to
furnish the requisite Documents.

As in some chemical mixture, that has stood long evaporating, but would not
crystallize, instantly when the wire or other fixed substance is
introduced, crystallization commences, and rapidly proceeds till the whole
is finished, so was it with the Editor's mind and this offer of
Heuschrecke's.  Form rose out of void solution and discontinuity; like
united itself with like in definite arrangement:  and soon either in actual
vision and possession, or in fixed reasonable hope, the image of the whole
Enterprise had shaped itself, so to speak, into a solid mass.  Cautiously
yet courageously, through the twopenny post, application to the famed
redoubtable OLIVER YORKE was now made:  an interview, interviews with that
singular man have taken place; with more of assurance on our side, with
less of satire (at least of open satire) on his, than we anticipated; for
the rest, with such issue as is now visible.  As to those same "patriotic
Libraries," the Hofrath's counsel could only be viewed with silent
amazement; but with his offer of Documents we joyfully and almost
instantaneously closed.  Thus, too, in the sure expectation of these, we
already see our task begun; and this our Sartor Resartus, which is
properly a "Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdrockh," hourly advancing.

Of our fitness for the Enterprise, to which we have such title and
vocation, it were perhaps uninteresting to say more.  Let the British
reader study and enjoy, in simplicity of heart, what is here presented him,
and with whatever metaphysical acumen and talent for meditation he is
possessed of.  Let him strive to keep a free, open sense; cleared from the
mists of prejudice, above all from the paralysis of cant; and directed
rather to the Book itself than to the Editor of the Book.  Who or what such
Editor may be, must remain conjectural, and even insignificant:* it is a
voice publishing tidings of the Philosophy of Clothes; undoubtedly a Spirit
addressing Spirits:  whoso hath ears, let him hear.

*With us even he still communicates in some sort of mask, or muffler; and,
we have reason to think, under a feigned name!—O. Y.

On one other point the Editor thinks it needful to give warning:  namely,
that he is animated with a true though perhaps a feeble attachment to the
Institutions of our Ancestors; and minded to defend these, according to
ability, at all hazards; nay, it was partly with a view to such defence
that he engaged in this undertaking.  To stem, or if that be impossible,
profitably to divert the current of Innovation, such a Volume as
Teufelsdrockh's, if cunningly planted down, were no despicable pile, or
floodgate, in the logical wear.

For the rest, be it nowise apprehended, that any personal connection of
ours with Teufelsdrockh, Heuschrecke or this Philosophy of Clothes, can
pervert our judgment, or sway us to extenuate or exaggerate.  Powerless, we
venture to promise, are those private Compliments themselves.  Grateful
they may well be; as generous illusions of friendship; as fair mementos of
bygone unions, of those nights and suppers of the gods, when, lapped in the
symphonies and harmonies of Philosophic Eloquence, though with baser
accompaniments, the present Editor revelled in that feast of reason, never
since vouchsafed him in so full measure!  But what then?  Amicus Plato,
magis amica veritas; Teufelsdrockh is our friend, Truth is our divinity.
In our historical and critical capacity, we hope we are strangers to all
the world; have feud or favor with no one,—save indeed the Devil, with
whom, as with the Prince of Lies and Darkness, we do at all times wage
internecine war.  This assurance, at an epoch when puffery and quackery
have reached a height unexampled in the annals of mankind, and even English
Editors, like Chinese Shopkeepers, must write on their door-lintels No
cheating here,—we thought it good to premise.


To the Author's private circle the appearance of this singular Work on
Clothes must have occasioned little less surprise than it has to the rest
of the world.  For ourselves, at least, few things have been more
unexpected.  Professor Teufelsdrockh, at the period of our acquaintance
with him, seemed to lead a quite still and self-contained life:  a man
devoted to the higher Philosophies, indeed; yet more likely, if he
published at all, to publish a refutation of Hegel and Bardili, both of
whom, strangely enough, he included under a common ban; than to descend, as
he has here done, into the angry noisy Forum, with an Argument that cannot
but exasperate and divide.  Not, that we can remember, was the Philosophy
of Clothes once touched upon between us.  If through the high, silent,
meditative Transcendentalism of our Friend we detected any practical
tendency whatever, it was at most Political, and towards a certain
prospective, and for the present quite speculative, Radicalism; as indeed
some correspondence, on his part, with Herr Oken of Jena was now and then
suspected; though his special contributions to the Isis could never be
more than surmised at.  But, at all events, nothing Moral, still less
anything Didactico-Religious, was looked for from him.

Well do we recollect the last words he spoke in our hearing; which indeed,
with the Night they were uttered in, are to be forever remembered.  Lifting
his huge tumbler of Gukguk,* and for a moment lowering his tobacco-pipe,
he stood up in full Coffee-house (it was Zur Grunen Gans, the largest in
Weissnichtwo, where all the Virtuosity, and nearly all the Intellect of the
place assembled of an evening); and there, with low, soul-stirring tone,
and the look truly of an angel, though whether of a white or of a black one
might be dubious, proposed this toast:  Die Sache der Armen in Gottes und
Teufels Namen (The Cause of the Poor, in Heaven's name and —'s)!  One
full shout, breaking the leaden silence; then a gurgle of innumerable
emptying bumpers, again followed by universal cheering, returned him loud
acclaim.  It was the finale of the night:  resuming their pipes; in the
highest enthusiasm, amid volumes of tobacco-smoke; triumphant, cloud-capt
without and within, the assembly broke up, each to his thoughtful pillow.
Bleibt doch ein echter Spass- und Galgen-vogel, said several; meaning
thereby that, one day, he would probably be hanged for his democratic
sentiments.  Wo steckt doch der Schalk? added they, looking round:  but
Teufelsdrockh had retired by private alleys, and the Compiler of these
pages beheld him no more.

*Gukguk is unhappily only an academical-beer.

In such scenes has it been our lot to live with this Philosopher, such
estimate to form of his purposes and powers.  And yet, thou brave
Teufelsdrockh, who could tell what lurked in thee?  Under those thick locks
of thine, so long and lank, overlapping roof-wise the gravest face we ever
in this world saw, there dwelt a most busy brain.  In thy eyes too, deep
under their shaggy brows, and looking out so still and dreamy, have we not
noticed gleams of an ethereal or else a diabolic fire, and half fancied
that their stillness was but the rest of infinite motion, the sleep of a
spinning-top?  Thy little figure, there as, in loose ill-brushed threadbare
habiliments, thou sattest, amid litter and lumber, whole days, to "think
and smoke tobacco," held in it a mighty heart.  The secrets of man's Life
were laid open to thee; thou sawest into the mystery of the Universe,
farther than another; thou hadst in petto thy remarkable Volume on
Clothes.  Nay, was there not in that clear logically founded
Transcendentalism of thine; still more, in thy meek, silent, deep-seated
Sansculottism, combined with a true princely Courtesy of inward nature, the
visible rudiments of such speculation?  But great men are too often
unknown, or what is worse, misknown.  Already, when we dreamed not of it,
the warp of thy remarkable Volume lay on the loom; and silently, mysterious
shuttles were putting in the woof.

How the Hofrath Heuschrecke is to furnish biographical data, in this case,
may be a curious question; the answer of which, however, is happily not our
concern, but his.  To us it appeared, after repeated trial, that in
Weissnichtwo, from the archives or memories of the best-informed classes,
no Biography of Teufelsdrockh was to be gathered; not so much as a false
one.  He was a stranger there, wafted thither by what is called the course
of circumstances; concerning whose parentage, birthplace, prospects, or
pursuits, curiosity had indeed made inquiries, but satisfied herself with
the most indistinct replies.  For himself, he was a man so still and
altogether unparticipating, that to question him even afar off on such
particulars was a thing of more than usual delicacy:  besides, in his sly
way, he had ever some quaint turn, not without its satirical edge,
wherewith to divert such intrusions, and deter you from the like.  Wits
spoke of him secretly as if he were a kind of Melchizedek, without father
or mother of any kind; sometimes, with reference to his great historic and
statistic knowledge, and the vivid way he had of expressing himself like an
eye-witness of distant transactions and scenes, they called him the Ewige
Jude, Everlasting, or as we say, Wandering Jew.

To the most, indeed, he had become not so much a Man as a Thing; which
Thing doubtless they were accustomed to see, and with satisfaction; but no
more thought of accounting for than for the fabrication of their daily
Allgemeine Zeitung, or the domestic habits of the Sun.  Both were there
and welcome; the world enjoyed what good was in them, and thought no more
of the matter.  The man Teufelsdrockh passed and repassed, in his little
circle, as one of those originals and nondescripts, more frequent in German
Universities than elsewhere; of whom, though you see them alive, and feel
certain enough that they must have a History, no History seems to be
discoverable; or only such as men give of mountain rocks and antediluvian
ruins:  That they have been created by unknown agencies, are in a state of
gradual decay, and for the present reflect light and resist pressure; that
is, are visible and tangible objects in this phantasm world, where so much
other mystery is.

It was to be remarked that though, by title and diploma, Professor der
Allerley-Wissenschaft, or as we should say in English, "Professor of
Things in General," he had never delivered any Course; perhaps never been
incited thereto by any public furtherance or requisition.  To all
appearance, the enlightened Government of Weissnichtwo, in founding their
New University, imagined they had done enough, if "in times like ours," as
the half-official Program expressed it, "when all things are, rapidly or
slowly, resolving themselves into Chaos, a Professorship of this kind had
been established; whereby, as occasion called, the task of bodying somewhat
forth again from such Chaos might be, even slightly, facilitated."  That
actual Lectures should be held, and Public Classes for the "Science of
Things in General," they doubtless considered premature; on which ground
too they had only established the Professorship, nowise endowed it; so that
Teufelsdrockh, "recommended by the highest Names," had been promoted
thereby to a Name merely.

Great, among the more enlightened classes, was the admiration of this new
Professorship:  how an enlightened Government had seen into the Want of the
Age (Zeitbedurfniss); how at length, instead of Denial and Destruction,
we were to have a science of Affirmation and Reconstruction; and Germany
and Weissnichtwo were where they should be, in the vanguard of the world.
Considerable also was the wonder at the new Professor, dropt opportunely
enough into the nascent University; so able to lecture, should occasion
call; so ready to hold his peace for indefinite periods, should an
enlightened Government consider that occasion did not call.  But such
admiration and such wonder, being followed by no act to keep them living,
could last only nine days; and, long before our visit to that scene, had
quite died away.  The more cunning heads thought it was all an expiring
clutch at popularity, on the part of a Minister, whom domestic
embarrassments, court intrigues, old age, and dropsy soon afterwards
finally drove from the helm.

As for Teufelsdrockh, except by his nightly appearances at the Grune
Gans, Weissnichtwo saw little of him, felt little of him.  Here, over his
tumbler of Gukguk, he sat reading Journals; sometimes contemplatively
looking into the clouds of his tobacco-pipe, without other visible
employment:  always, from his mild ways, an agreeable phenomenon there;
more especially when he opened his lips for speech; on which occasions the
whole Coffee-house would hush itself into silence, as if sure to hear
something noteworthy.  Nay, perhaps to hear a whole series and river of the
most memorable utterances; such as, when once thawed, he would for hours
indulge in, with fit audience:  and the more memorable, as issuing from a
head apparently not more interested in them, not more conscious of them,
than is the sculptured stone head of some public fountain, which through
its brass mouth-tube emits water to the worthy and the unworthy; careless
whether it be for cooking victuals or quenching conflagrations; indeed,
maintains the same earnest assiduous look, whether any water be flowing or

To the Editor of these sheets, as to a young enthusiastic Englishman,
however unworthy, Teufelsdrockh opened himself perhaps more than to the
most. Pity only that we could not then half guess his importance, and
scrutinize him with due power of vision!  We enjoyed, what not three men
Weissnichtwo could boast of, a certain degree of access to the Professor's
private domicile.  It was the attic floor of the highest house in the
Wahngasse; and might truly be called the pinnacle of Weissnichtwo, for it
rose sheer up above the contiguous roofs, themselves rising from elevated
ground.  Moreover, with its windows it looked towards all the four Orte
or as the Scotch say, and we ought to say, Airts:  the sitting room
itself commanded three; another came to view in the Schlafgemach
(bedroom) at the opposite end; to say nothing of the kitchen, which offered
two, as it were, duplicates, showing nothing new.  So that it was in fact
the speculum or watch-tower of Teufelsdrockh; wherefrom, sitting at ease he
might see the whole life-circulation of that considerable City; the streets
and lanes of which, with all their doing and driving (Thun und Treiben),
were for the most part visible there.

"I look down into all that wasp-nest or bee-hive," we have heard him say,
"and witness their wax-laying and honey-making, and poison-brewing, and
choking by sulphur.  From the Palace esplanade, where music plays while
Serene Highness is pleased to eat his victuals, down to the low lane, where
in her door-sill the aged widow, knitting for a thin livelihood sits to
feel the afternoon sun, I see it all; for, except Schlosskirche
weather-cock, no biped stands so high.  Couriers arrive bestrapped and
bebooted, bearing Joy and Sorrow bagged up in pouches of leather:  there,
top-laden, and with four swift horses, rolls in the country Baron and his
household; here, on timber-leg, the lamed Soldier hops painfully along,
begging alms:  a thousand carriages, and wains, cars, come tumbling in with
Food, with young Rusticity, and other Raw Produce, inanimate or animate,
and go tumbling out again with produce manufactured.  That living flood,
pouring through these streets, of all qualities and ages, knowest thou
whence it is coming, whither it is going?  Aus der Ewigkeit, zu der
Ewigkeit hin:  From Eternity, onwards to Eternity!  These are Apparitions:
what else?  Are they not Souls rendered visible:  in Bodies, that took
shape and will lose it, melting into air?  Their solid Pavement is a
Picture of the Sense; they walk on the bosom of Nothing, blank Time is
behind them and before them.  Or fanciest thou, the red and yellow
Clothes-screen yonder, with spurs on its heels and feather in its crown, is
but of To-day, without a Yesterday or a To-morrow; and had not rather its
Ancestor alive when Hengst and Horsa overran thy Island?  Friend, thou
seest here a living link in that Tissue of History, which inweaves all
Being:  watch well, or it will be past thee, and seen no more."

"Ach, mein Lieber!" said he once, at midnight, when we had returned from
the Coffee-house in rather earnest talk, "it is a true sublimity to dwell
here.  These fringes of lamplight, struggling up through smoke and
thousand-fold exhalation, some fathoms into the ancient reign of Night,
what thinks Bootes of them, as he leads his Hunting-Dogs over the Zenith in
their leash of sidereal fire?  That stifled hum of Midnight, when Traffic
has lain down to rest; and the chariot-wheels of Vanity, still rolling here
and there through distant streets, are bearing her to Halls roofed in, and
lighted to the due pitch for her; and only Vice and Misery, to prowl or to
moan like nightbirds, are abroad:  that hum, I say, like the stertorous,
unquiet slumber of sick Life, is heard in Heaven!  Oh, under that hideous
coverlet of vapors, and putrefactions, and unimaginable gases, what a
Fermenting-vat lies simmering and hid!  The joyful and the sorrowful are
there; men are dying there, men are being born; men are praying,—on the
other side of a brick partition, men are cursing; and around them all is
the vast, void Night.  The proud Grandee still lingers in his perfumed
saloons, or reposes within damask curtains; Wretchedness cowers into
buckle-beds, or shivers hunger-stricken into its lair of straw:  in obscure
cellars, Rouge-et-Noir languidly emits its voice-of-destiny to haggard
hungry Villains; while Councillors of State sit plotting, and playing their
high chess-game, whereof the pawns are Men.  The Lover whispers his
mistress that the coach is ready; and she, full of hope and fear, glides
down, to fly with him over the borders:  the Thief, still more silently,
sets to his picklocks and crowbars, or lurks in wait till the watchmen
first snore in their boxes.  Gay mansions, with supper-rooms and
dancing-rooms, are full of light and music and high-swelling hearts; but,
in the Condemned Cells, the pulse of life beats tremulous and faint, and
bloodshot eyes look out through the darkness, which is around and within,
for the light of a stern last morning.  Six men are to be hanged on the
morrow:  comes no hammering from the Rabenstein?—their gallows must even
now be o' building.  Upwards of five hundred thousand two-legged animals
without feathers lie round us, in horizontal position; their heads all in
nightcaps, and full of the foolishest dreams.  Riot cries aloud, and
staggers and swaggers in his rank dens of shame; and the Mother, with
streaming hair, kneels over her pallid dying infant, whose cracked lips
only her tears now moisten.— All these heaped and huddled together, with
nothing but a little carpentry and masonry between them;—crammed in, like
salted fish in their barrel;—or weltering, shall I say, like an Egyptian
pitcher of tamed vipers, each struggling to get its head above the
others:  such work goes on under that smoke-counterpane!—But I, mein
Werther, sit above it all; I am alone with the stars."

We looked in his face to see whether, in the utterance of such
extraordinary Night-thoughts, no feeling might be traced there; but with
the light we had, which indeed was only a single tallow-light, and far
enough from the window, nothing save that old calmness and fixedness was

These were the Professor's talking seasons:  most commonly he spoke in mere
monosyllables, or sat altogether silent and smoked; while the visitor had
liberty either to say what he listed, receiving for answer an occasional
grunt; or to look round for a space, and then take himself away.  It was a
strange apartment; full of books and tattered papers, and miscellaneous
shreds of all conceivable substances, "united in a common element of dust."
Books lay on tables, and below tables; here fluttered a sheet of
manuscript, there a torn handkerchief, or nightcap hastily thrown aside;
ink-bottles alternated with bread-crusts, coffee-pots, tobacco-boxes,
Periodical Literature, and Blucher Boots.  Old Lieschen (Lisekin, 'Liza),
who was his bed-maker and stove-lighter, his washer and wringer, cook,
errand-maid, and general lion's-provider, and for the rest a very orderly
creature, had no sovereign authority in this last citadel of Teufelsdrockh;
only some once in the month she half-forcibly made her way thither, with
broom and duster, and (Teufelsdrockh hastily saving his manuscripts)
effected a partial clearance, a jail-delivery of such lumber as was not
Literary.  These were her Erdbeben (earthquakes), which Teufelsdrockh
dreaded worse than the pestilence; nevertheless, to such length he had been
forced to comply.  Glad would he have been to sit here philosophizing
forever, or till the litter, by accumulation, drove him out of doors:  but
Lieschen was his right-arm, and spoon, and necessary of life, and would not
be flatly gainsayed.  We can still remember the ancient woman; so silent
that some thought her dumb; deaf also you would often have supposed her;
for Teufelsdrockh, and Teufelsdrockh only, would she serve or give heed to;
and with him she seemed to communicate chiefly by signs; if it were not
rather by some secret divination that she guessed all his wants, and
supplied them.  Assiduous old dame!  she scoured, and sorted, and swept, in
her kitchen, with the least possible violence to the ear; yet all was tight
and right there:  hot and black came the coffee ever at the due moment; and
the speechless Lieschen herself looked out on you, from under her clean
white coif with its lappets, through her clean withered face and wrinkles,
with a look of helpful intelligence, almost of benevolence.

Few strangers, as above hinted, had admittance hither:  the only one we
ever saw there, ourselves excepted, was the Hofrath Heuschrecke, already
known, by name and expectation, to the readers of these pages.  To us, at
that period, Herr Heuschrecke seemed one of those purse-mouthed,
crane-necked, clean-brushed, pacific individuals, perhaps sufficiently
distinguished in society by this fact, that, in dry weather or in wet,
"they never appear without their umbrella."  Had we not known with what
"little wisdom" the world is governed; and how, in Germany as elsewhere,
the ninety-and-nine Public Men can for most part be but mute train-bearers
to the hundredth, perhaps but stalking-horses and willing or unwilling
dupes,— it might have seemed wonderful how Herr Heuschrecke should be
named a Rath, or Councillor, and Counsellor, even in Weissnichtwo.  What
counsel to any man, or to any woman, could this particular Hofrath give; in
whose loose, zigzag figure; in whose thin visage, as it went jerking to and
fro, in minute incessant fluctuation,—you traced rather confusion worse
confounded; at most, Timidity and physical Cold?  Some indeed said withal,
he was "the very Spirit of Love embodied:"  blue earnest eyes, full of
sadness and kindness; purse ever open, and so forth; the whole of which, we
shall now hope, for many reasons, was not quite groundless.  Nevertheless
friend Teufelsdrockh's outline, who indeed handled the burin like few in
these cases, was probably the best:  Er hat Gemuth und Geist, hat
wenigstens gehabt, doch ohne Organ, ohne Schicksals-Gunst; ist gegenwartig
aber halb-zerruttet, halb-erstarrt, "He has heart and talent, at least has
had such, yet without fit mode of utterance, or favor of Fortune; and so is
now half-cracked, half-congealed."—What the Hofrath shall think of this
when he sees it, readers may wonder; we, safe in the stronghold of
Historical Fidelity, are careless.

The main point, doubtless, for us all, is his love of Teufelsdrockh, which
indeed was also by far the most decisive feature of Heuschrecke himself.
We are enabled to assert that he hung on the Professor with the fondness of
a Boswell for his Johnson.  And perhaps with the like return; for
Teufelsdrockh treated his gaunt admirer with little outward regard, as some
half-rational or altogether irrational friend, and at best loved him out of
gratitude and by habit.  On the other hand, it was curious to observe with
what reverent kindness, and a sort of fatherly protection, our Hofrath,
being the elder, richer, and as he fondly imagined far more practically
influential of the two, looked and tended on his little Sage, whom he
seemed to consider as a living oracle.  Let but Teufelsdrockh open his
mouth, Heuschrecke's also unpuckered itself into a free doorway, besides
his being all eye and all ear, so that nothing might be lost:  and then, at
every pause in the harangue, he gurgled out his pursy chuckle of a
cough-laugh (for the machinery of laughter took some time to get in motion,
and seemed crank and slack), or else his twanging nasal, Bravo!  Das
glaub' ich; in either case, by way of heartiest approval.  In short, if
Teufelsdrockh was Dalai-Lama, of which, except perhaps in his
self-seclusion, and godlike indifference, there was no symptom, then might
Heuschrecke pass for his chief Talapoin, to whom no dough-pill he could
knead and publish was other than medicinal and sacred.

In such environment, social, domestic, physical, did Teufelsdrockh, at the
time of our acquaintance, and most likely does he still, live and meditate.
Here, perched up in his high Wahngasse watch-tower, and often, in solitude,
outwatching the Bear, it was that the indomitable Inquirer fought all his
battles with Dulness and Darkness; here, in all probability, that he wrote
this surprising Volume on Clothes.  Additional particulars:  of his age,
which was of that standing middle sort you could only guess at; of his wide
surtout; the color of his trousers, fashion of his broad-brimmed
steeple-hat, and so forth, we might report, but do not.  The Wisest truly
is, in these times, the Greatest; so that an enlightened curiosity leaving
Kings and such like to rest very much on their own basis, turns more and
more to the Philosophic Class:  nevertheless, what reader expects that,
with all our writing and reporting, Teufelsdrockh could be brought home to
him, till once the Documents arrive?  His Life, Fortunes, and Bodily
Presence, are as yet hidden from us, or matter only of faint conjecture.
But, on the other hand, does not his Soul lie enclosed in this remarkable
Volume, much more truly than Pedro Garcia's did in the buried Bag of
Doubloons?  To the soul of Diogenes Teufelsdrockh, to his opinions, namely,
on the "Origin and Influence of Clothes," we for the present gladly return.


It were a piece of vain flattery to pretend that this Work on Clothes
entirely contents us; that it is not, like all works of genius, like the
very Sun, which, though the highest published creation, or work of genius,
has nevertheless black spots and troubled nebulosities amid its
effulgence,—a mixture of insight, inspiration, with dulness,
double-vision, and even utter blindness.

Without committing ourselves to those enthusiastic praises and prophesyings
of the Weissnichtwo'sche Anzeiger, we admitted that the Book had in a
high degree excited us to self-activity, which is the best effect of any
book; that it had even operated changes in our way of thought; nay, that it
promised to prove, as it were, the opening of a new mine-shaft, wherein the
whole world of Speculation might henceforth dig to unknown depths.  More
specially may it now be declared that Professor Teufelsdrockh's
acquirements, patience of research, philosophic and even poetic vigor, are
here made indisputably manifest; and unhappily no less his prolixity and
tortuosity and manifold ineptitude; that, on the whole, as in opening new
mine-shafts is not unreasonable, there is much rubbish in his Book, though
likewise specimens of almost invaluable ore.  A paramount popularity in
England we cannot promise him.  Apart from the choice of such a topic as
Clothes, too often the manner of treating it betokens in the Author a
rusticity and academic seclusion, unblamable, indeed inevitable in a
German, but fatal to his success with our public.

Of good society Teufelsdrockh appears to have seen little, or has mostly
forgotten what he saw.  He speaks out with a strange plainness; calls many
things by their mere dictionary names.  To him the Upholsterer is no
Pontiff, neither is any Drawing-room a Temple, were it never so begilt and
overhung:  "a whole immensity of Brussels carpets, and pier-glasses, and
ormolu," as he himself expresses it, "cannot hide from me that such
Drawing-room is simply a section of Infinite Space, where so many
God-created Souls do for the time meet together."  To Teufelsdrockh the
highest Duchess is respectable, is venerable; but nowise for her pearl
bracelets and Malines laces:  in his eyes, the star of a Lord is little
less and little more than the broad button of Birmingham spelter in a
Clown's smock; "each is an implement," he says, "in its kind; a tag for
hooking-together; and, for the rest, was dug from the earth, and hammered
on a stithy before smith's fingers."  Thus does the Professor look in men's
faces with a strange impartiality, a strange scientific freedom; like a man
unversed in the higher circles, like a man dropped thither from the Moon.
Rightly considered, it is in this peculiarity, running through his whole
system of thought, that all these shortcomings, over-shootings, and
multiform perversities, take rise:  if indeed they have not a second
source, also natural enough, in his Transcendental Philosophies, and humor
of looking at all Matter and Material things as Spirit; whereby truly his
case were but the more hopeless, the more lamentable.

To the Thinkers of this nation, however, of which class it is firmly
believed there are individuals yet extant, we can safely recommend the
Work:  nay, who knows but among the fashionable ranks too, if it be true,
as Teufelsdrockh maintains, that "within the most starched cravat there
passes a windpipe and weasand, and under the thickliest embroidered
waistcoat beats a heart,"—the force of that rapt earnestness may be felt,
and here and there an arrow of the soul pierce through?  In our wild Seer,
shaggy, unkempt, like a Baptist living on locusts and wild honey, there is
an untutored energy, a silent, as it were unconscious, strength, which,
except in the higher walks of Literature, must be rare.  Many a deep
glance, and often with unspeakable precision, has he cast into mysterious
Nature, and the still more mysterious Life of Man.  Wonderful it is with
what cutting words, now and then, he severs asunder the confusion; sheers
down, were it furlongs deep; into the true centre of the matter; and there
not only hits the nail on the head, but with crushing force smites it home,
and buries it.—On the other hand, let us be free to admit, he is the most
unequal writer breathing.  Often after some such feat, he will play truant
for long pages, and go dawdling and dreaming, and mumbling and maundering
the merest commonplaces, as if he were asleep with eyes open, which indeed
he is.

Of his boundless Learning, and how all reading and literature in most known
tongues, from Sanchoniathon to Dr. Lingard, from your Oriental
Shasters, and Talmuds, and Korans, with Cassini's Siamese fables,
and Laplace's Mecanique Celeste, down to Robinson Crusoe and the
Belfast Town and Country Almanack, are familiar to him,—we shall say
nothing:  for unexampled as it is with us, to the Germans such universality
of study passes without wonder, as a thing commendable, indeed, but
natural, indispensable, and there of course.  A man that devotes his life
to learning, shall he not be learned?

In respect of style our Author manifests the same genial capability, marred
too often by the same rudeness, inequality, and apparent want of
intercourse with the higher classes.  Occasionally, as above hinted, we
find consummate vigor, a true inspiration; his burning thoughts step forth
in fit burning words, like so many full-formed Minervas, issuing amid flame
and splendor from Jove's head; a rich, idiomatic diction, picturesque
allusions, fiery poetic emphasis, or quaint tricksy turns; all the graces
and terrors of a wild Imagination, wedded to the clearest Intellect,
alternate in beautiful vicissitude.  Were it not that sheer sleeping and
soporific passages; circumlocutions, repetitions, touches even of pure
doting jargon, so often intervene!  On the whole, Professor Teufelsdrockh,
is not a cultivated writer.  Of his sentences perhaps not more than
nine-tenths stand straight on their legs; the remainder are in quite
angular attitudes, buttressed up by props (of parentheses and dashes), and
ever with this or the other tagrag hanging from them; a few even sprawl out
helplessly on all sides, quite broken-backed and dismembered.
Nevertheless, in almost his very worst moods, there lies in him a singular
attraction.  A wild tone pervades the whole utterance of the man, like its
keynote and regulator; now screwing itself aloft as into the Song of
Spirits, or else the shrill mockery of Fiends; now sinking in cadences, not
without melodious heartiness, though sometimes abrupt enough, into the
common pitch, when we hear it only as a monotonous hum; of which hum the
true character is extremely difficult to fix.  Up to this hour we have
never fully satisfied ourselves whether it is a tone and hum of real Humor,
which we reckon among the very highest qualities of genius, or some echo of
mere Insanity and Inanity, which doubtless ranks below the very lowest.

Under a like difficulty, in spite even of our personal intercourse, do we
still lie with regard to the Professor's moral feeling.  Gleams of an
ethereal love burst forth from him, soft wailings of infinite pity; he
could clasp the whole Universe into his bosom, and keep it warm; it seems
as if under that rude exterior there dwelt a very seraph.  Then again he is
so sly and still, so imperturbably saturnine; shows such indifference,
malign coolness towards all that men strive after; and ever with some
half-visible wrinkle of a bitter sardonic humor, if indeed it be not mere
stolid callousness,—that you look on him almost with a shudder, as on some
incarnate Mephistopheles, to whom this great terrestrial and celestial
Round, after all, were but some huge foolish Whirligig, where kings and
beggars, and angels and demons, and stars and street-sweepings, were
chaotically whirled, in which only children could take interest. His look,
as we mentioned, is probably the gravest ever seen:  yet it is not of that
cast-iron gravity frequent enough among our own Chancery suitors; but
rather the gravity as of some silent, high-encircled mountain-pool, perhaps
the crater of an extinct volcano; into whose black deeps you fear to gaze:
those eyes, those lights that sparkle in it, may indeed be reflexes of the
heavenly Stars, but perhaps also glances from the region of Nether Fire.

Certainly a most involved, self-secluded, altogether enigmatic nature, this
of Teufelsdrockh!  Here, however, we gladly recall to mind that once we saw
him laugh; once only, perhaps it was the first and last time in his life;
but then such a peal of laughter, enough to have awakened the Seven
Sleepers!  It was of Jean Paul's doing:  some single billow in that vast
World-Mahlstrom of Humor, with its heaven-kissing coruscations, which is
now, alas, all congealed in the frost of death!  The large-bodied Poet and
the small, both large enough in soul, sat talking miscellaneously together,
the present Editor being privileged to listen; and now Paul, in his serious
way, was giving one of those inimitable "Extra-Harangues;" and, as it
chanced, On the Proposal for a Cast-metal King:  gradually a light
kindled in our Professor's eyes and face, a beaming, mantling, loveliest
light; through those murky features, a radiant ever-young Apollo looked;
and he burst forth like the neighing of all Tattersall's,—tears streaming
down his cheeks, pipe held aloft, foot clutched into the air,—loud,
long-continuing, uncontrollable; a laugh not of the face and diaphragm
only, but of the whole man from head to heel.  The present Editor, who
laughed indeed, yet with measure, began to fear all was not right:
however, Teufelsdrockh, composed himself, and sank into his old stillness;
on his inscrutable countenance there was, if anything, a slight look of
shame; and Richter himself could not rouse him again.  Readers who have any
tincture of Psychology know how much is to be inferred from this; and that
no man who has once heartily and wholly laughed can be altogether
irreclaimably bad.  How much lies in Laughter:  the cipher-key, wherewith
we decipher the whole man!  Some men wear an everlasting barren simper; in
the smile of others lies a cold glitter as of ice:  the fewest are able to
laugh, what can be called laughing, but only sniff and titter and snigger
from the throat outwards; or at best, produce some whiffling husky
cachinnation, as if they were laughing through wool:  of none such comes
good.  The man who cannot laugh is not only fit for treasons, stratagems,
and spoils; but his whole life is already a treason and a stratagem.

Considered as an Author, Herr Teufelsdrockh has one scarcely pardonable
fault, doubtless his worst:  an almost total want of arrangement.  In this
remarkable Volume, it is true, his adherence to the mere course of Time
produces, through the Narrative portions, a certain show of outward method;
but of true logical method and sequence there is too little.  Apart from
its multifarious sections and subdivisions, the Work naturally falls into
two Parts; a Historical-Descriptive, and a Philosophical-Speculative:  but
falls, unhappily, by no firm line of demarcation; in that labyrinthic
combination, each Part overlaps, and indents, and indeed runs quite through
the other.  Many sections are of a debatable rubric, or even quite
nondescript and unnamable; whereby the Book not only loses in
accessibility, but too often distresses us like some mad banquet, wherein
all courses had been confounded, and fish and flesh, soup and solid,
oyster-sauce, lettuces, Rhine-wine and French mustard, were hurled into one
huge tureen or trough, and the hungry Public invited to help itself.  To
bring what order we can out of this Chaos shall be part of our endeavor.


"As Montesquieu wrote a Spirit of Laws," observes our Professor, "so
could I write a Spirit of Clothes; thus, with an Esprit des Lois,
properly an Esprit de Coutumes, we should have an Esprit de Costumes.
For neither in tailoring nor in legislating does man proceed by mere
Accident, but the hand is ever guided on by mysterious operations of the
mind.  In all his Modes, and habilatory endeavors, an Architectural Idea
will be found lurking; his Body and the Cloth are the site and materials
whereon and whereby his beautified edifice, of a Person, is to be built.
Whether he flow gracefully out in folded mantles, based on light sandals;
tower up in high headgear, from amid peaks, spangles and bell-girdles;
swell out in starched ruffs, buckram stuffings, and monstrous tuberosities;
or girth himself into separate sections, and front the world an
Agglomeration of four limbs,—will depend on the nature of such
Architectural Idea:  whether Grecian, Gothic, Later Gothic, or altogether
Modern, and Parisian or Anglo-Dandiacal.  Again, what meaning lies in
Color!  From the soberest drab to the high-flaming scarlet, spiritual
idiosyncrasies unfold themselves in choice of Color:  if the Cut betoken
Intellect and Talent, so does the Color betoken Temper and Heart.  In all
which, among nations as among individuals, there is an incessant,
indubitable, though infinitely complex working of Cause and Effect:  every
snip of the Scissors has been regulated and prescribed by ever-active
Influences, which doubtless to Intelligences of a superior order are
neither invisible nor illegible.

"For such superior Intelligences a Cause-and-Effect Philosophy of Clothes,
as of Laws, were probably a comfortable winter-evening entertainment:
nevertheless, for inferior Intelligences, like men, such Philosophies have
always seemed to me uninstructive enough.  Nay, what is your Montesquieu
himself but a clever infant spelling Letters from a hieroglyphical
prophetic Book, the lexicon of which lies in Eternity, in Heaven?—Let any
Cause-and-Effect Philosopher explain, not why I wear such and such a
Garment, obey such and such a Law; but even why I am here, to wear and
obey anything!— Much, therefore, if not the whole, of that same Spirit of
Clothes I shall suppress, as hypothetical, ineffectual, and even
impertinent:  naked Facts, and Deductions drawn therefrom in quite another
than that omniscient style, are my humbler and proper province."

Acting on which prudent restriction, Teufelsdrockh, has nevertheless
contrived to take in a well-nigh boundless extent of field; at least, the
boundaries too often lie quite beyond our horizon.  Selection being
indispensable, we shall here glance over his First Part only in the most
cursory manner.  This First Part is, no doubt, distinguished by omnivorous
learning, and utmost patience and fairness:  at the same time, in its
results and delineations, it is much more likely to interest the Compilers
of some Library of General, Entertaining, Useful, or even Useless
Knowledge than the miscellaneous readers of these pages.  Was it this Part
of the Book which Heuschrecke had in view, when he recommended us to that
joint-stock vehicle of publication, "at present the glory of British
Literature"?  If so, the Library Editors are welcome to dig in it for their
own behoof.

To the First Chapter, which turns on Paradise and Fig-leaves, and leads us
into interminable disquisitions of a mythological, metaphorical,
cabalistico-sartorial and quite antediluvian cast, we shall content
ourselves with giving an unconcerned approval.  Still less have we to do
with "Lilis, Adam's first wife, whom, according to the Talmudists, he had
before Eve, and who bore him, in that wedlock, the whole progeny of aerial,
aquatic, and terrestrial Devils,"—very needlessly, we think.  On this
portion of the Work, with its profound glances into the Adam-Kadmon, or
Primeval Element, here strangely brought into relation with the Nifl and
Muspel (Darkness and Light) of the antique North, it may be enough to
say, that its correctness of deduction, and depth of Talmudic and
Rabbinical lore have filled perhaps not the worst Hebraist in Britain with
something like astonishment.

But, quitting this twilight region, Teufelsdrockh hastens from the Tower of
Babel, to follow the dispersion of Mankind over the whole habitable and
habilable globe.  Walking by the light of Oriental, Pelasgic, Scandinavian,
Egyptian, Otaheitean, Ancient and Modern researches of every conceivable
kind, he strives to give us in compressed shape (as the Nurnbergers give an
Orbis Pictus) an Orbis Vestitus; or view of the costumes of all
mankind, in all countries, in all times.  It is here that to the
Antiquarian, to the Historian, we can triumphantly say:  Fall to!  Here is
learning:  an irregular Treasury, if you will; but inexhaustible as the
Hoard of King Nibelung, which twelve wagons in twelve days, at the rate of
three journeys a day, could not carry off.  Sheepskin cloaks and wampum
belts; phylacteries, stoles, albs; chlamydes, togas, Chinese silks, Afghaun
shawls, trunk-hose, leather breeches, Celtic hilibegs (though breeches, as
the name Gallia Braccata indicates, are the more ancient), Hussar cloaks,
Vandyke tippets, ruffs, fardingales, are brought vividly before us,—even
the Kilmarnock nightcap is not forgotten.  For most part, too, we must
admit that the Learning, heterogeneous as it is, and tumbled down quite
pell-mell, is true concentrated and purified Learning, the drossy parts
smelted out and thrown aside.

Philosophical reflections intervene, and sometimes touching pictures of
human life.  Of this sort the following has surprised us.  The first
purpose of Clothes, as our Professor imagines, was not warmth or decency,
but ornament.  "Miserable indeed," says he, "was the condition of the
Aboriginal Savage, glaring fiercely from under his fleece of hair, which
with the beard reached down to his loins, and hung round him like a matted
cloak; the rest of his body sheeted in its thick natural fell.  He loitered
in the sunny glades of the forest, living on wild-fruits; or, as the
ancient Caledonian, squatted himself in morasses, lurking for his bestial
or human prey; without implements, without arms, save the ball of heavy
Flint, to which, that his sole possession and defence might not be lost, he
had attached a long cord of plaited thongs; thereby recovering as well as
hurling it with deadly unerring skill.  Nevertheless, the pains of Hunger
and Revenge once satisfied, his next care was not Comfort but Decoration
(Putz).  Warmth he found in the toils of the chase; or amid dried leaves,
in his hollow tree, in his bark shed, or natural grotto:  but for
Decoration he must have Clothes.  Nay, among wild people, we find tattooing
and painting even prior to Clothes.  The first spiritual want of a
barbarous man is Decoration, as indeed we still see among the barbarous
classes in civilized countries.

"Reader, the heaven-inspired melodious Singer; loftiest Serene Highness;
nay thy own amber-locked, snow-and-rosebloom Maiden, worthy to glide
sylph-like almost on air, whom thou lovest, worshippest as a divine
Presence, which, indeed, symbolically taken, she is,—has descended, like
thyself, from that same hair-mantled, flint-hurling Aboriginal
Anthropophagus!  Out of the eater cometh forth meat; out of the strong
cometh forth sweetness.  What changes are wrought, not by Time, yet in
Time!  For not Mankind only, but all that Mankind does or beholds, is in
continual growth, re-genesis and self-perfecting vitality.  Cast forth thy
Act, thy Word, into the ever-living, ever-working Universe:  it is a
seed-grain that cannot die; unnoticed to-day (says one), it will be found
flourishing as a Banyan-grove (perhaps, alas, as a Hemlock-forest!) after a
thousand years.

"He who first shortened the labor of Copyists by device of Movable Types
was disbanding hired Armies, and cashiering most Kings and Senates, and
creating a whole new Democratic world:  he had invented the Art of
Printing.  The first ground handful of Nitre, Sulphur, and Charcoal drove
Monk Schwartz's pestle through the ceiling:  what will the last do?
Achieve the final undisputed prostration of Force under Thought, of Animal
courage under Spiritual.  A simple invention it was in the old-world
Grazier,—sick of lugging his slow Ox about the country till he got it
bartered for corn or oil,—to take a piece of Leather, and thereon scratch
or stamp the mere Figure of an Ox (or Pecus); put it in his pocket, and
call it Pecunia, Money.  Yet hereby did Barter grow Sale, the Leather
Money is now Golden and Paper, and all miracles have been out-miracled:
for there are Rothschilds and English National Debts; and whoso has
sixpence is sovereign (to the length of sixpence) over all men; commands
cooks to feed him, philosophers to teach him, kings to mount guard over
him,—to the length of sixpence.—Clothes too, which began in foolishest
love of Ornament, what have they not become!  Increased Security and
pleasurable Heat soon followed:  but what of these?  Shame, divine Shame
(Schaam, Modesty), as yet a stranger to the Anthropophagous bosom, arose
there mysteriously under Clothes; a mystic grove-encircled shrine for the
Holy in man.  Clothes gave us individuality, distinctions, social polity;
Clothes have made Men of us; they are threatening to make Clothes-screens
of us.

"But, on the whole," continues our eloquent Professor, "Man is a Tool-using
Animal (Handthierendes Thier).  Weak in himself, and of small stature, he
stands on a basis, at most for the flattest-soled, of some half-square
foot, insecurely enough; has to straddle out his legs, lest the very wind
supplant him.  Feeblest of bipeds!  Three quintals are a crushing load for
him; the steer of the meadow tosses him aloft, like a waste rag.
Nevertheless he can use Tools; can devise Tools:  with these the granite
mountain melts into light dust before him; he kneads glowing iron, as if it
were soft paste; seas are his smooth highway, winds and fire his unwearying
steeds.  Nowhere do you find him without Tools; without Tools he is
nothing, with Tools he is all."

Here may we not, for a moment, interrupt the stream of Oratory with a
remark, that this Definition of the Tool-using Animal appears to us, of all
that Animal-sort, considerably the precisest and best?  Man is called a
Laughing Animal:  but do not the apes also laugh, or attempt to do it; and
is the manliest man the greatest and oftenest laugher?  Teufelsdrockh
himself, as we said, laughed only once.  Still less do we make of that
other French Definition of the Cooking Animal; which, indeed, for rigorous
scientific purposes, is as good as useless.  Can a Tartar be said to cook,
when he only readies his steak by riding on it?  Again, what Cookery does
the Greenlander use, beyond stowing up his whale-blubber, as a marmot, in
the like case, might do?  Or how would Monsieur Ude prosper among those
Orinoco Indians who, according to Humboldt, lodge in crow-nests, on the
branches of trees; and, for half the year, have no victuals but pipe-clay,
the whole country being under water?  But, on the other hand, show us the
human being, of any period or climate, without his Tools:  those very
Caledonians, as we saw, had their Flint-ball, and Thong to it, such as no
brute has or can have.

"Man is a Tool-using Animal," concludes Teufelsdrockh, in his abrupt way;
"of which truth Clothes are but one example:  and surely if we consider the
interval between the first wooden Dibble fashioned by man, and those
Liverpool Steam-carriages, or the British House of Commons, we shall note
what progress he has made.  He digs up certain black stones from the bosom
of the earth, and says to them, Transport me and this luggage at the rate
of file-and-thirty miles an hour; and they do it:  he collects, apparently
by lot, six hundred and fifty-eight miscellaneous individuals, and says to
them, Make this nation toil for us, bleed for us, hunger and, sorrow and
sin for us; and they do it."


One of the most unsatisfactory Sections in the whole Volume is that on
Aprons.  What though stout old Gao, the Persian Blacksmith, "whose Apron,
now indeed hidden under jewels, because raised in revolt which proved
successful, is still the royal standard of that country;" what though John
Knox's Daughter, "who threatened Sovereign Majesty that she would catch her
husband's head in her Apron, rather than he should lie and be a bishop;"
what though the Landgravine Elizabeth, with many other Apron
worthies,—figure here?  An idle wire-drawing spirit, sometimes even a tone
of levity, approaching to conventional satire, is too clearly discernible.
What, for example, are we to make of such sentences as the following?

"Aprons are Defences; against injury to cleanliness, to safety, to modesty,
sometimes to roguery.  From the thin slip of notched silk (as it were, the
emblem and beatified ghost of an Apron), which some highest-bred housewife,
sitting at Nurnberg Work-boxes and Toy-boxes, has gracefully fastened on;
to the thick-tanned hide, girt round him with thongs, wherein the Builder
builds, and at evening sticks his trowel; or to those jingling sheet-iron
Aprons, wherein your otherwise half-naked Vulcans hammer and smelt in their
smelt-furnace,—is there not range enough in the fashion and uses of this
Vestment?  How much has been concealed, how much has been defended in
Aprons!  Nay, rightly considered, what is your whole Military and Police
Establishment, charged at uncalculated millions, but a huge
scarlet-colored, iron-fastened Apron, wherein Society works (uneasily
enough); guarding itself from some soil and stithy-sparks, in this
Devil's-smithy (Teufels-schmiede) of a world?  But of all Aprons the most
puzzling to me hitherto has been the Episcopal or Cassock.  Wherein
consists the usefulness of this Apron?  The Overseer (Episcopus) of
Souls, I notice, has tucked in the corner of it, as if his day's work were
done:  what does he shadow forth thereby?" &c. &c.

Or again, has it often been the lot of our readers to read such stuff as we
shall now quote?

"I consider those printed Paper Aprons, worn by the Parisian Cooks, as a
new vent, though a slight one, for Typography; therefore as an
encouragement to modern Literature, and deserving of approval:  nor is it
without satisfaction that I hear of a celebrated London Firm having in view
to introduce the same fashion, with important extensions, in England."—We
who are on the spot hear of no such thing; and indeed have reason to be
thankful that hitherto there are other vents for our Literature, exuberant
as it is.—Teufelsdrockh continues:  "If such supply of printed Paper
should rise so far as to choke up the highways and public thoroughfares,
new means must of necessity be had recourse to.  In a world existing by
Industry, we grudge to employ fire as a destroying element, and not as a
creating one.  However, Heaven is omnipotent, and will find us an outlet.
In the mean while, is it not beautiful to see five million quintals of Rags
picked annually from the Laystall; and annually, after being macerated,
hot-pressed, printed on, and sold,—returned thither; filling so many
hungry mouths by the way?  Thus is the Laystall, especially with its Rags
or Clothes-rubbish, the grand Electric Battery, and Fountain-of-motion,
from which and to which the Social Activities (like vitreous and resinous
Electricities) circulate, in larger or smaller circles, through the mighty,
billowy, storm-tost chaos of Life, which they keep alive!"—Such passages
fill us, who love the man, and partly esteem him, with a very mixed

Farther down we meet with this:  "The Journalists are now the true Kings
and Clergy:  henceforth Historians, unless they are fools, must write not
of Bourbon Dynasties, and Tudors and Hapsburgs; but of Stamped Broad-sheet
Dynasties, and quite new successive Names, according as this or the other
Able Editor, or Combination of Able Editors, gains the world's ear.  Of the
British Newspaper Press, perhaps the most important of all, and wonderful
enough in its secret constitution and procedure, a valuable descriptive
History already exists, in that language, under the title of Satan's
Invisible World Displayed; which, however, by search in all the
Weissnichtwo Libraries, I have not yet succeeded in procuring (vermochte
night aufzutreiben)."

Thus does the good Homer not only nod, but snore.  Thus does Teufelsdrockh,
wandering in regions where he had little business, confound the old
authentic Presbyterian Witchfinder with a new, spurious, imaginary
Historian of the Brittische Journalistik; and so stumble on perhaps the
most egregious blunder in Modern Literature!


Happier is our Professor, and more purely scientific and historic, when he
reaches the Middle Ages in Europe, and down to the end of the Seventeenth
Century; the true era of extravagance in Costume.  It is here that the
Antiquary and Student of Modes comes upon his richest harvest. Fantastic
garbs, beggaring all fancy of a Teniers or a Callot, succeed each other,
like monster devouring monster in a Dream.  The whole too in brief
authentic strokes, and touched not seldom with that breath of genius which
makes even old raiment live.  Indeed, so learned, precise, graphical, and
every way interesting have we found these Chapters, that it may be thrown
out as a pertinent question for parties concerned, Whether or not a good
English Translation thereof might henceforth be profitably incorporated
with Mr. Merrick's valuable Work On Ancient Armor?  Take, by way of
example, the following sketch; as authority for which Paulinus's
Zeitkurzende Lust (ii. 678) is, with seeming confidence, referred to:

"Did we behold the German fashionable dress of the Fifteenth Century, we
might smile; as perhaps those bygone Germans, were they to rise again, and
see our haberdashery, would cross themselves, and invoke the Virgin.  But
happily no bygone German, or man, rises again; thus the Present is not
needlessly trammelled with the Past; and only grows out of it, like a Tree,
whose roots are not intertangled with its branches, but lie peaceably
underground.  Nay it is very mournful, yet not useless, to see and know,
how the Greatest and Dearest, in a short while, would find his place quite
filled up here, and no room for him; the very Napoleon, the very Byron, in
some seven years, has become obsolete, and were now a foreigner to his
Europe.  Thus is the Law of Progress secured; and in Clothes, as in all
other external things whatsoever, no fashion will continue.

"Of the military classes in those old times, whose buff-belts, complicated
chains and gorgets, huge churn-boots, and other riding and fighting gear
have been bepainted in modern Romance, till the whole has acquired somewhat
of a sign-post character,—I shall here say nothing:  the civil and pacific
classes, less touched upon, are wonderful enough for us.

"Rich men, I find, have Teusinke [a perhaps untranslatable article]; also
a silver girdle, whereat hang little bells; so that when a man walks, it is
with continual jingling.  Some few, of musical turn, have a whole chime of
bells (Glockenspiel) fastened there; which, especially in sudden whirls,
and the other accidents of walking, has a grateful effect.  Observe too how
fond they are of peaks, and Gothic-arch intersections.  The male world
wears peaked caps, an ell long, which hang bobbing over the side
(schief):  their shoes are peaked in front, also to the length of an ell,
and laced on the side with tags; even the wooden shoes have their ell-long
noses:  some also clap bells on the peak.  Further, according to my
authority, the men have breeches without seat (ohne Gesass):  these they
fasten peakwise to their shirts; and the long round doublet must overlap

"Rich maidens, again, flit abroad in gowns scolloped out behind and before,
so that back and breast are almost bare.  Wives of quality, on the other
hand, have train-gowns four or five ells in length; which trains there are
boys to carry.  Brave Cleopatras, sailing in their silk-cloth Galley, with
a Cupid for steersman!  Consider their welts, a handbreadth thick, which
waver round them by way of hem; the long flood of silver buttons, or rather
silver shells, from throat to shoe, wherewith these same welt-gowns are
buttoned.  The maidens have bound silver snoods about their hair, with gold
spangles, and pendent flames (Flammen), that is, sparkling hair-drops:
but of their mother's head-gear who shall speak?  Neither in love of grace
is comfort forgotten.  In winter weather you behold the whole fair creation
(that can afford it) in long mantles, with skirts wide below, and, for hem,
not one but two sufficient hand-broad welts; all ending atop in a thick
well-starched Ruff, some twenty inches broad:  these are their Ruff-mantles

"As yet among the womankind hoop-petticoats are not; but the men have
doublets of fustian, under which lie multiple ruffs of cloth, pasted
together with batter (mit Teig zusammengekleistert), which create
protuberance enough.  Thus do the two sexes vie with each other in the art
of Decoration; and as usual the stronger carries it."

Our Professor, whether he have humor himself or not, manifests a certain
feeling of the Ludicrous, a sly observance of it which, could emotion of
any kind be confidently predicated of so still a man, we might call a real
love.  None of those bell-girdles, bushel-breeches, counted shoes, or other
the like phenomena, of which the History of Dress offers so many, escape
him:  more especially the mischances, or striking adventures, incident to
the wearers of such, are noticed with due fidelity.  Sir Walter Raleigh's
fine mantle, which he spread in the mud under Queen Elizabeth's feet,
appears to provoke little enthusiasm in him; he merely asks, Whether at
that period the Maiden Queen "was red-painted on the nose, and
white-painted on the cheeks, as her tire-women, when from spleen and
wrinkles she would no longer look in any glass, were wont to serve her"?
We can answer that Sir Walter knew well what he was doing, and had the
Maiden Queen been stuffed parchment dyed in verdigris, would have done the

Thus too, treating of those enormous habiliments, that were not only
slashed and gallooned, but artificially swollen out on the broader parts of
the body, by introduction of Bran,—our Professor fails not to comment on
that luckless Courtier, who having seated himself on a chair with some
projecting nail on it, and therefrom rising, to pay his devoir on the
entrance of Majesty, instantaneously emitted several pecks of dry
wheat-dust:  and stood there diminished to a spindle, his galloons and
slashes dangling sorrowful and flabby round him.  Whereupon the Professor
publishes this reflection:—

"By what strange chances do we live in History?  Erostratus by a torch;
Milo by a bullock; Henry Darnley, an unfledged booby and bustard, by his
limbs; most Kings and Queens by being born under such and such a
bed-tester; Boileau Despreaux (according to Helvetius) by the peck of a
turkey; and this ill-starred individual by a rent in his breeches,—for no
Memoirist of Kaiser Otto's Court omits him.  Vain was the prayer of
Themistocles for a talent of Forgetting:  my Friends, yield cheerfully to
Destiny, and read since it is written."—Has Teufelsdrockh, to be put in
mind that, nearly related to the impossible talent of Forgetting, stands
that talent of Silence, which even travelling Englishmen manifest?

"The simplest costume," observes our Professor, "which I anywhere find
alluded to in History, is that used as regimental, by Bolivar's Cavalry, in
the late Colombian wars.  A square Blanket, twelve feet in diagonal, is
provided (some were wont to cut off the corners, and make it circular):  in
the centre a slit is effected eighteen inches long; through this the
mother-naked Trooper introduces his head and neck; and so rides shielded
from all weather, and in battle from many strokes (for he rolls it about
his left arm); and not only dressed, but harnessed and draperied."

With which picture of a State of Nature, affecting by its singularity, and
Old-Roman contempt of the superfluous, we shall quit this part of our


If in the Descriptive-Historical portion of this Volume, Teufelsdrockh,
discussing merely the Werden (Origin and successive Improvement) of
Clothes, has astonished many a reader, much more will he in the
Speculative-Philosophical portion, which treats of their Wirken, or
Influences.  It is here that thc present Editor first feels the pressure of
his task; for here properly the higher and new Philosophy of Clothes
commences:  all untried, almost inconceivable region, or chaos; in
venturing upon which, how difficult, yet how unspeakably important is it to
know what course, of survey and conquest, is the true one; where the
footing is firm substance and will bear us, where it is hollow, or mere
cloud, and may engulf us!  Teufelsdrockh undertakes no less than to expound
the moral, political, even religious Influences of Clothes; he undertakes
to make manifest, in its thousand-fold bearings, this grand Proposition,
that Man's earthly interests "are all hooked and buttoned together, and
held up, by Clothes."  He says in so many words, "Society is founded upon
Cloth;" and again, "Society sails through the Infinitude on Cloth, as on a
Faust's Mantle, or rather like the Sheet of clean and unclean beasts in the
Apostle's Dream; and without such Sheet or Mantle, would sink to endless
depths, or mount to inane limbos, and in either case be no more."

By what chains, or indeed infinitely complected tissues, of Meditation this
grand Theorem is here unfolded, and innumerable practical Corollaries are
drawn therefrom, it were perhaps a mad ambition to attempt exhibiting.  Our
Professor's method is not, in any case, that of common school Logic, where
the truths all stand in a row, each holding by the skirts of the other; but
at best that of practical Reason' proceeding by large Intuition over whole
systematic groups and kingdoms; whereby, we might say, a noble complexity,
almost like that of Nature, reigns in his Philosophy, or spiritual Picture
of Nature:  a mighty maze, yet, as faith whispers, not without a plan.  Nay
we complained above, that a certain ignoble complexity, what we must call
mere confusion, was also discernible.  Often, also, we have to exclaim:
Would to Heaven those same Biographical Documents were come!  For it seems
as if the demonstration lay much in the Author's individuality; as if it
were not Argument that had taught him, but Experience.  At present it is
only in local glimpses, and by significant fragments, picked often at
wide-enough intervals from the original Volume, and carefully collated,
that we can hope to impart some outline or foreshadow of this Doctrine.
Readers of any intelligence are once more invited to favor us with their
most concentrated attention:  let these, after intense consideration, and
not till then, pronounce, Whether on the utmost verge of our actual horizon
there is not a looming as of Land; a promise of new Fortunate Islands,
perhaps whole undiscovered Americas, for such as have canvas to sail
thither?—As exordium to the whole, stand here the following long

"With men of a speculative turn," writes Teufelsdrockh, "there come
seasons, meditative, sweet, yet awful hours, when in wonder and fear you
ask yourself that unanswerable question:  Who am I; the thing that can say
'I' (das Wesen das sich ICH nennt)?  The world, with its loud
trafficking, retires into the distance; and, through the paper-hangings,
and stonewalls, and thick-plied tissues of Commerce and Polity, and all the
living and lifeless integuments (of Society and a Body), wherewith your
Existence sits surrounded,—the sight reaches forth into the void Deep, and
you are alone with the Universe, and silently commune with it, as one
mysterious Presence with another.

"Who am I; what is this ME?  A Voice, a Motion, an Appearance;—some
embodied, visualized Idea in the Eternal Mind?  Cogito, ergo sum.  Alas,
poor Cogitator, this takes us but a little way.  Sure enough, I am; and
lately was not:  but Whence?  How?  Whereto?  The answer lies around,
written in all colors and motions, uttered in all tones of jubilee and
wail, in thousand-figured, thousand-voiced, harmonious Nature:  but where
is the cunning eye and ear to whom that God-written Apocalypse will yield
articulate meaning?  We sit as in a boundless Phantasmagoria and
Dream-grotto; boundless, for the faintest star, the remotest century, lies
not even nearer the verge thereof:  sounds and many-colored visions flit
round our sense; but Him, the Unslumbering, whose work both Dream and
Dreamer are, we see not; except in rare half-waking moments, suspect not.
Creation, says one, lies before us, like a glorious Rainbow; but the Sun
that made it lies behind us, hidden from us.  Then, in that strange Dream,
how we clutch at shadows as if they were substances; and sleep deepest
while fancying ourselves most awake!  Which of your Philosophical Systems
is other than a dream-theorem; a net quotient, confidently given out, where
divisor and dividend are both unknown?  What are all your national Wars,
with their Moscow Retreats, and sanguinary hate-filled Revolutions, but the
Somnambulism of uneasy Sleepers?  This Dreaming, this Somnambulism is what
we on Earth call Life; wherein the most indeed undoubtingly wander, as if
they knew right hand from left; yet they only are wise who know that they
know nothing.

"Pity that all Metaphysics had hitherto proved so inexpressibly
unproductive!  The secret of Man's Being is still like the Sphinx's secret:
a riddle that he cannot rede; and for ignorance of which he suffers death,
the worst death, a spiritual.  What are your Axioms, and Categories, and
Systems, and Aphorisms?  Words, words.  High Air-castles are cunningly
built of Words, the Words well bedded also in good Logic-mortar; wherein,
however, no Knowledge will come to lodge.  The whole is greater than the
part:  how exceedingly true!  Nature abhors a vacuum:  how exceedingly
false and calumnious!  Again, Nothing can act but where it is:  with all
my heart; only, WHERE is it?  Be not the slave of Words:  is not the
Distant, the Dead, while I love it, and long for it, and mourn for it,
Here, in the genuine sense, as truly as the floor I stand on?  But that
same WHERE, with its brother WHEN, are from the first the master-colors of
our Dream-grotto; say rather, the Canvas (the warp and woof thereof)
whereon all our Dreams and Life-visions are painted.  Nevertheless, has not
a deeper meditation taught certain of every climate and age, that the WHERE
and WHEN, so mysteriously inseparable from all our thoughts, are but
superficial terrestrial adhesions to thought; that the Seer may discern
them where they mount up out of the celestial EVERYWHERE and FOREVER:  have
not all nations conceived their God as Omnipresent and Eternal; as existing
in a universal HERE, an everlasting Now?  Think well, thou too wilt find
that Space is but a mode of our human Sense, so likewise Time; there is
no Space and no Time:  WE are—we know not what;—light-sparkles floating
in the ether of Deity!

"So that this so solid-seeming World, after all, were but an air-image, our
ME the only reality:  and Nature, with its thousand-fold production and
destruction, but the reflex of our own inward Force, the 'phantasy of our
Dream;' or what the Earth-Spirit in Faust names it, the living visible
Garment of God:—

    "'In Being's floods, in Action's storm,
    I walk and work, above, beneath,
    Work and weave in endless motion!
          Birth and Death,
          An infinite ocean;
          A seizing and giving
          The fire of Living:
    'Tis thus at the roaring Loom of Time I ply,
    And weave for God the Garment thou seest Him by.'

Of twenty millions that have read and spouted this thunder-speech of the
Erdgeist, are there yet twenty units of us that have learned the meaning

"It was in some such mood, when wearied and fordone with these high
speculations, that I first came upon the question of Clothes.  Strange
enough, it strikes me, is this same fact of there being Tailors and
Tailored.  The Horse I ride has his own whole fell:  strip him of the
girths and flaps and extraneous tags I have fastened round him, and the
noble creature is his own sempster and weaver and spinner; nay his own
boot-maker, jeweller, and man-milliner; he bounds free through the valleys,
with a perennial rain-proof court-suit on his body; wherein warmth and
easiness of fit have reached perfection; nay, the graces also have been
considered, and frills and fringes, with gay variety of color, featly
appended, and ever in the right place, are not wanting.  While I—good
Heaven!— have thatched myself over with the dead fleeces of sheep, the
bark of vegetables, the entrails of worms, the hides of oxen or seals, the
felt of furred beasts; and walk abroad a moving Rag-screen, overheaped with
shreds and tatters raked from the Charnel-house of Nature, where they would
have rotted, to rot on me more slowly!  Day after day, I must thatch myself
anew; day after day, this despicable thatch must lose some film of its
thickness; some film of it, frayed away by tear and wear, must be brushed
off into the Ashpit, into the Laystall; till by degrees the whole has been
brushed thither, and I, the dust-making, patent Rat-grinder, get new
material to grind down.  O subter-brutish! vile! most vile!  For have not I
too a compact all-enclosing Skin, whiter or dingier?  Am I a botched mass
of tailors' and cobblers' shreds, then; or a tightly articulated,
homogeneous little Figure, automatic, nay alive?

"Strange enough how creatures of the human-kind shut their eyes to plainest
facts; and by the mere inertia of Oblivion and Stupidity, live at ease in
the midst of Wonders and Terrors.  But indeed man is, and was always, a
blockhead and dullard; much readier to feel and digest, than to think and
consider.  Prejudice, which he pretends to hate, is his absolute lawgiver;
mere use-and-wont everywhere leads him by the nose; thus let but a Rising
of the Sun, let but a Creation of the World happen twice, and it ceases
to be marvellous, to be noteworthy, or noticeable.  Perhaps not once in a
lifetime does it occur to your ordinary biped, of any country or
generation, be he gold-mantled Prince or russet-jerkined Peasant, that his
Vestments and his Self are not one and indivisible; that he is naked,
without vestments, till he buy or steal such, and by forethought sew and
button them.

"For my own part, these considerations, of our Clothes-thatch, and how,
reaching inwards even to our heart of hearts, it tailorizes and demoralizes
us, fill me with a certain horror at myself and mankind; almost as one
feels at those Dutch Cows, which, during the wet season, you see grazing
deliberately with jackets and petticoats (of striped sacking), in the
meadows of Gouda.  Nevertheless there is something great in the moment when
a man first strips himself of adventitious wrappages; and sees indeed that
he is naked, and, as Swift has it, 'a forked straddling animal with bandy
legs;' yet also a Spirit, and unutterable Mystery of Mysteries."


Let no courteous reader take offence at the opinions broached in the
conclusion of the last Chapter.  The Editor himself, on first glancing over
that singular passage, was inclined to exclaim:  What, have we got not only
a Sansculottist, but an enemy to Clothes in the abstract?  A new Adamite,
in this century, which flatters itself that it is the Nineteenth, and
destructive both to Superstition and Enthusiasm?

Consider, thou foolish Teufelsdrockh, what benefits unspeakable all ages
and sexes derive from Clothes.  For example, when thou thyself, a watery,
pulpy, slobbery freshman and new-comer in this Planet, sattest muling and
puking in thy nurse's arms; sucking thy coral, and looking forth into the
world in the blankest manner, what hadst thou been without thy blankets,
and bibs, and other nameless hulls?  A terror to thyself and mankind!  Or
hast thou forgotten the day when thou first receivedst breeches, and thy
long clothes became short?  The village where thou livedst was all apprised
of the fact; and neighbor after neighbor kissed thy pudding-cheek, and gave
thee, as handsel, silver or copper coins, on that the first gala-day of thy
existence.  Again, wert not thou, at one period of life, a Buck, or Blood,
or Macaroni, or Incroyable, or Dandy, or by whatever name, according to
year and place, such phenomenon is distinguished?  In that one word lie
included mysterious volumes.  Nay, now when the reign of folly is over, or
altered, and thy clothes are not for triumph but for defence, hast thou
always worn them perforce, and as a consequence of Man's Fall; never
rejoiced in them as in a warm movable House, a Body round thy Body, wherein
that strange THEE of thine sat snug, defying all variations of Climate?
Girt with thick double-milled kerseys; half buried under shawls and
broadbrims, and overalls and mudboots, thy very fingers cased in doeskin
and mittens, thou hast bestrode that "Horse I ride;" and, though it were in
wild winter, dashed through the world, glorying in it as if thou wert its
lord.  In vain did the sleet beat round thy temples; it lighted only on thy
impenetrable, felted or woven, case of wool.  In vain did the winds
howl,—forests sounding and creaking, deep calling unto deep,—and the
storms heap themselves together into one huge Arctic whirlpool:  thou
flewest through the middle thereof, striking fire from the highway; wild
music hummed in thy ears, thou too wert as a "sailor of the air;" the wreck
of matter and the crash of worlds was thy element and propitiously wafting
tide.  Without Clothes, without bit or saddle, what hadst thou been; what
had thy fleet quadruped been?—Nature is good, but she is not the best:
here truly was the victory of Art over Nature.  A thunderbolt indeed might
have pierced thee; all short of this thou couldst defy.

Or, cries the courteous reader, has your Teufelsdrockh forgotten what he
said lately about "Aboriginal Savages," and their "condition miserable
indeed"?  Would he have all this unsaid; and us betake ourselves again to
the "matted cloak," and go sheeted in a "thick natural fell"?

Nowise, courteous reader!  The Professor knows full well what he is saying;
and both thou and we, in our haste, do him wrong.  If Clothes, in these
times, "so tailorize and demoralize us," have they no redeeming value; can
they not be altered to serve better; must they of necessity be thrown to
the dogs?  The truth is, Teufelsdrockh, though a Sansculottist, is no
Adamite; and much perhaps as he might wish to go forth before this
degenerate age "as a Sign," would nowise wish to do it, as those old
Adamites did, in a state of Nakedness.  The utility of Clothes is
altogether apparent to him:  nay perhaps he has an insight into their more
recondite, and almost mystic qualities, what we might call the omnipotent
virtue of Clothes, such as was never before vouchsafed to any man.  For

"You see two individuals," he writes, "one dressed in fine Red, the other
in coarse threadbare Blue:  Red says to Blue, 'Be hanged and anatomized;'
Blue hears with a shudder, and (O wonder of wonders!) marches sorrowfully
to the gallows; is there noosed up, vibrates his hour, and the surgeons
dissect him, and fit his bones into a skeleton for medical purposes.  How
is this; or what make ye of your Nothing can act but where it is?  Red
has no physical hold of Blue, no clutch of him, is nowise in contact
with him:  neither are those ministering Sheriffs and Lord-Lieutenants and
Hangmen and Tipstaves so related to commanding Red, that he can tug them
hither and thither; but each stands distinct within his own skin.
Nevertheless, as it is spoken, so is it done:  the articulated Word sets
all hands in Action; and Rope and Improved-drop perform their work.

"Thinking reader, the reason seems to me twofold:  First, that Man is a
Spirit, and bound by invisible bonds to All Men; secondly, that he
wears Clothes, which are the visible emblems of that fact.  Has not your
Red hanging-individual a horsehair wig, squirrel-skins, and a plush-gown;
whereby all mortals know that he is a JUDGE?—Society, which the more I
think of it astonishes me the more, is founded upon Cloth.

"Often in my atrabiliar moods, when I read of pompous ceremonials,
Frankfort Coronations, Royal Drawing-rooms, Levees, Couchees; and how the
ushers and macers and pursuivants are all in waiting; how Duke this is
presented by Archduke that, and Colonel A by General B, and innumerable
Bishops, Admirals, and miscellaneous Functionaries, are advancing gallantly
to the Anointed Presence; and I strive, in my remote privacy, to form a
clear picture of that solemnity,—on a sudden, as by some enchanter's wand,
the—shall I speak it?—the Clothes fly off the whole dramatic corps; and
Dukes, Grandees, Bishops, Generals, Anointed Presence itself, every
mother's son of them, stand straddling there, not a shirt on them; and I
know not whether to laugh or weep.  This physical or psychical infirmity,
in which perhaps I am not singular, I have, after hesitation, thought right
to publish, for the solace of those afflicted with the like."

Would to Heaven, say we, thou hadst thought right to keep it secret!  Who
is there now that can read the five columns of Presentations in his Morning
Newspaper without a shudder?  Hypochondriac men, and all men are to a
certain extent hypochondriac, should be more gently treated.  With what
readiness our fancy, in this shattered state of the nerves, follows out the
consequences which Teufelsdrockh, with a devilish coolness, goes on to

"What would Majesty do, could such an accident befall in reality; should
the buttons all simultaneously start, and the solid wool evaporate, in very
Deed, as here in Dream?  Ach Gott!  How each skulks into the nearest
hiding-place; their high State Tragedy (Haupt- und Staats-Action) becomes
a Pickleherring-Farce to weep at, which is the worst kind of Farce; the
tables (according to Horace), and with them, the whole fabric of
Government, Legislation, Property, Police, and Civilized Society, are
dissolved, in wails and howls."

Lives the man that can figure a naked Duke of Windlestraw addressing a
naked House of Lords?  Imagination, choked as in mephitic air, recoils on
itself, and will not forward with the picture.  The Woolsack, the
Ministerial, the Opposition Benches—infandum! infandum!  And yet why is
the thing impossible?  Was not every soul, or rather every body, of these
Guardians of our Liberties, naked, or nearly so, last night; "a forked
Radish with a head fantastically carved"?  And why might he not, did our
stern fate so order it, walk out to St. Stephen's, as well as into bed, in
that no-fashion; and there, with other similar Radishes, hold a Bed of
Justice?  "Solace of those afflicted with the like!"  Unhappy
Teufelsdrockh, had man ever such a "physical or psychical infirmity"
before?  And now how many, perhaps, may thy unparalleled confession (which
we, even to the sounder British world, and goaded on by Critical and
Biographical duty, grudge to reimpart) incurably infect therewith!  Art
thou the malignest of Sansculottists, or only the maddest?

"It will remain to be examined," adds the inexorable Teufelsdrockh, "in how
far the SCARECROW, as a Clothed Person, is not also entitled to benefit of
clergy, and English trial by jury:  nay perhaps, considering his high
function (for is not he too a Defender of Property, and Sovereign armed
with the terrors of the Law?), to a certain royal Immunity and
Inviolability; which, however, misers and the meaner class of persons are
not always voluntarily disposed to grant him."

"O my Friends, we are [in Yorick Sterne's words] but as 'turkeys driven,
with a stick and red clout, to the market:'  or if some drivers, as they do
in Norfolk, take a dried bladder and put peas in it, the rattle thereof
terrifies the boldest!"


It must now be apparent enough that our Professor, as above hinted, is a
speculative Radical, and of the very darkest tinge; acknowledging, for most
part, in the solemnities and paraphernalia of civilized Life, which we make
so much of, nothing but so many Cloth-rags, turkey-poles, and "bladders
with dried peas."  To linger among such speculations, longer than mere
Science requires, a discerning public can have no wish.  For our purposes
the simple fact that such a Naked World is possible, nay actually exists
(under the Clothed one), will be sufficient.  Much, therefore, we omit
about "Kings wrestling naked on the green with Carmen," and the Kings being
thrown:  "dissect them with scalpels," says Teufelsdrockh; "the same
viscera, tissues, livers, lights, and other life-tackle, are there:
examine their spiritual mechanism; the same great Need, great Greed, and
little Faculty; nay ten to one but the Carman, who understands
draught-cattle, the rimming of wheels, something of the laws of unstable
and stable equilibrium, with other branches of wagon-science, and has
actually put forth his hand and operated on Nature, is the more cunningly
gifted of the two.  Whence, then, their so unspeakable difference?  From
Clothes."  Much also we shall omit about confusion of Ranks, and Joan and
My Lady, and how it would be everywhere "Hail fellow well met," and Chaos
were come again:  all which to any one that has once fairly pictured out
the grand mother-idea, Society in a state of Nakedness, will
spontaneously suggest itself.  Should some sceptical individual still
entertain doubts whether in a world without Clothes, the smallest
Politeness, Polity, or even Police, could exist, let him turn to the
original Volume, and view there the boundless Serbonian Bog of
Sansculottism, stretching sour and pestilential:  over which we have
lightly flown; where not only whole armies but whole nations might sink!
If indeed the following argument, in its brief riveting emphasis, be not of
itself incontrovertible and final:—

"Are we Opossums; have we natural Pouches, like the Kangaroo?  Or how,
without Clothes, could we possess the master-organ, soul's seat, and true
pineal gland of the Body Social:  I mean, a PURSE?"

Nevertheless it is impossible to hate Professor Teufelsdrockh; at worst,
one knows not whether to hate or to love him.  For though, in looking at
the fair tapestry of human Life, with its royal and even sacred figures, he
dwells not on the obverse alone, but here chiefly on the reverse; and
indeed turns out the rough seams, tatters, and manifold thrums of that
unsightly wrong-side, with an almost diabolic patience and indifference,
which must have sunk him in the estimation of most readers, —there is that
within which unspeakably distinguishes him from all other past and present
Sansculottists.  The grand unparalleled peculiarity of Teufelsdrockh is,
that with all this Descendentalism, he combines a Transcendentalism, no
less superlative; whereby if on the one hand he degrade man below most
animals, except those jacketed Gouda Cows, he, on the other, exalts him
beyond the visible Heavens, almost to an equality with the Gods.

"To the eye of vulgar Logic," says he, "what is man?  An omnivorous Biped
that wears Breeches.  To the eye of Pure Reason what is he?  A Soul, a
Spirit, and divine Apparition.  Round his mysterious ME, there lies, under
all those wool-rags, a Garment of Flesh (or of Senses), contextured in the
Loom of Heaven; whereby he is revealed to his like, and dwells with them in
UNION and DIVISION; and sees and fashions for himself a Universe, with
azure Starry Spaces, and long Thousands of Years.  Deep-hidden is he under
that strange Garment; amid Sounds and Colors and Forms, as it were, swathed
in, and inextricably over-shrouded:  yet it is sky-woven, and worthy of a
God.  Stands he not thereby in the centre of Immensities, in the conflux of
Eternities?  He feels; power has been given him to know, to believe; nay
does not the spirit of Love, free in its celestial primeval brightness,
even here, though but for moments, look through?  Well said Saint
Chrysostom, with his lips of gold, 'the true SHEKINAH is Man:'  where else
is the GOD'S-PRESENCE manifested not to our eyes only, but to our hearts,
as in our fellow-man?"

In such passages, unhappily too rare, the high Platonic Mysticism of our
Author, which is perhaps the fundamental element of his nature, bursts
forth, as it were, in full flood:  and, through all the vapor and tarnish
of what is often so perverse, so mean in his exterior and environment, we
seem to look into a whole inward Sea of Light and Love;—though, alas, the
grim coppery clouds soon roll together again, and hide it from view.

Such tendency to Mysticism is everywhere traceable in this man; and indeed,
to attentive readers, must have been long ago apparent.  Nothing that he
sees but has more than a common meaning, but has two meanings:  thus, if in
the highest Imperial Sceptre and Charlemagne-Mantle, as well as in the
poorest Ox-goad and Gypsy-Blanket, he finds Prose, Decay, Contemptibility;
there is in each sort Poetry also, and a reverend Worth.  For Matter, were
it never so despicable, is Spirit, the manifestation of Spirit:  were it
never so honorable, can it be more?  The thing Visible, nay the thing
Imagined, the thing in any way conceived as Visible, what is it but a
Garment, a Clothing of the higher, celestial Invisible, "unimaginable
formless, dark with excess of bright"?  Under which point of view the
following passage, so strange in purport, so strange in phrase, seems
characteristic enough:—

"The beginning of all Wisdom is to look fixedly on Clothes, or even with
armed eyesight, till they become transparent.  'The Philosopher,' says
the wisest of this age, 'must station himself in the middle:'  how true!
The Philosopher is he to whom the Highest has descended, and the Lowest has
mounted up; who is the equal and kindly brother of all.

"Shall we tremble before clothwebs and cobwebs, whether woven in Arkwright
looms, or by the silent Arachnes that weave unrestingly in our Imagination?
Or, on the other hand, what is there that we cannot love; since all was
created by God?

"Happy he who can look through the Clothes of a Man (the woollen, and
fleshly, and official Bank-paper and State-paper Clothes) into the Man
himself; and discern, it may be, in this or the other Dread Potentate, a
more or less incompetent Digestive-apparatus; yet also an inscrutable
venerable Mystery, in the meanest Tinker that sees with eyes!"

For the rest, as is natural to a man of this kind, he deals much in the
feeling of Wonder; insists on the necessity and high worth of universal
Wonder; which he holds to be the only reasonable temper for the denizen of
so singular a Planet as ours.  "Wonder," says he, "is the basis of Worship:
the reign of wonder is perennial, indestructible in Man; only at certain
stages (as the present), it is, for some short season, a reign in partibus
infidelium."  That progress of Science, which is to destroy Wonder, and in
its stead substitute Mensuration and Numeration, finds small favor with
Teufelsdrockh, much as he otherwise venerates these two latter processes.

"Shall your Science," exclaims he, "proceed in the small chink-lighted, or
even oil-lighted, underground workshop of Logic alone; and man's mind
become an Arithmetical Mill, whereof Memory is the Hopper, and mere Tables
of Sines and Tangents, Codification, and Treatises of what you call
Political Economy, are the Meal?  And what is that Science, which the
scientific head alone, were it screwed off, and (like the Doctor's in the
Arabian Tale) set in a basin to keep it alive, could prosecute without
shadow of a heart,—but one other of the mechanical and menial handicrafts,
for which the Scientific Head (having a Soul in it) is too noble an organ?
I mean that Thought without Reverence is barren, perhaps poisonous; at
best, dies like cookery with the day that called it forth; does not live,
like sowing, in successive tilths and wider-spreading harvests, bringing
food and plenteous increase to all Time."

In such wise does Teufelsdrockh deal hits, harder or softer, according to
ability; yet ever, as we would fain persuade ourselves, with charitable
intent.  Above all, that class of "Logic-choppers, and treble-pipe
Scoffers, and professed Enemies to Wonder; who, in these days, so
numerously patrol as night-constables about the Mechanics' Institute of
Science, and cackle, like true Old-Roman geese and goslings round their
Capitol, on any alarm, or on none; nay who often, as illuminated Sceptics,
walk abroad into peaceable society, in full daylight, with rattle and
lantern, and insist on guiding you and guarding you therewith, though the
Sun is shining, and the street populous with mere justice-loving men:"
that whole class is inexpressibly wearisome to him.  Hear with what
uncommon animation he perorates:—

"The man who cannot wonder, who does not habitually wonder (and worship),
were he President of innumerable Royal Societies, and carried the whole
Mecanique Celeste and Hegel's Philosophy, and the epitome of all
Laboratories and Observatories with their results, in his single head,—is
but a Pair of Spectacles behind which there is no Eye. Let those who have
Eyes look through him, then he may be useful.

"Thou wilt have no Mystery and Mysticism; wilt walk through thy world by
the sunshine of what thou callest Truth, or even by the hand-lamp of what I
call Attorney-Logic; and 'explain' all, 'account' for all, or believe
nothing of it?  Nay, thou wilt attempt laughter; whoso recognizes the
unfathomable, all-pervading domain of Mystery, which is everywhere under
our feet and among our hands; to whom the Universe is an Oracle and Temple,
as well as a Kitchen and Cattle-stall,—he shall be a delirious Mystic; to
him thou, with sniffing charity, wilt protrusively proffer thy hand-lamp,
and shriek, as one injured, when he kicks his foot through it?—Armer
Teufel!  Doth not thy cow calve, doth not thy bull gender?  Thou thyself,
wert thou not born, wilt thou not die?  'Explain' me all this, or do one of
two things:  Retire into private places with thy foolish cackle; or, what
were better, give it up, and weep, not that the reign of wonder is done,
and God's world all disembellished and prosaic, but that thou hitherto art
a Dilettante and sand-blind Pedant."


The Philosophy of Clothes is now to all readers, as we predicted it would
do, unfolding itself into new boundless expansions, of a cloud-capt, almost
chimerical aspect, yet not without azure loomings in the far distance, and
streaks as of an Elysian brightness; the highly questionable purport and
promise of which it is becoming more and more important for us to
ascertain.  Is that a real Elysian brightness, cries many a timid wayfarer,
or the reflex of Pandemonian lava?  Is it of a truth leading us into
beatific Asphodel meadows, or the yellow-burning marl of a Hell-on-Earth?

Our Professor, like other Mystics, whether delirious or inspired, gives an
Editor enough to do.  Ever higher and dizzier are the heights he leads us
to; more piercing, all-comprehending, all-confounding are his views and
glances.  For example, this of Nature being not an Aggregate but a Whole:—

"Well sang the Hebrew Psalmist:  'If I take the wings of the morning and
dwell in the uttermost parts of the Universe, God is there.'  Thou thyself,
O cultivated reader, who too probably art no Psalmist, but a Prosaist,
knowing GOD only by tradition, knowest thou any corner of the world where
at least FORCE is not?  The drop which thou shakest from thy wet hand,
rests not where it falls, but to-morrow thou findest it swept away; already
on the wings of the North-wind, it is nearing the Tropic of Cancer.  How
came it to evaporate, and not lie motionless?  Thinkest thou there is aught
motionless; without Force, and utterly dead?

"As I rode through the Schwarzwald, I said to myself:  That little fire
which glows star-like across the dark-growing (nachtende) moor, where the
sooty smith bends over his anvil, and thou hopest to replace thy lost
horse-shoe,—is it a detached, separated speck, cut off from the whole
Universe; or indissolubly joined to the whole?  Thou fool, that smithy-fire
was (primarily) kindled at the Sun; is fed by air that circulates from
before Noah's Deluge, from beyond the Dog-star; therein, with Iron Force,
and Coal Force, and the far stranger Force of Man, are cunning affinities
and battles and victories of Force brought about; it is a little ganglion,
or nervous centre, in the great vital system of Immensity.  Call it, if
thou wilt, an unconscious Altar, kindled on the bosom of the All; whose
iron sacrifice, whose iron smoke and influence reach quite through the All;
whose dingy Priest, not by word, yet by brain and sinew, preaches forth the
mystery of Force; nay preaches forth (exoterically enough) one little
textlet from the Gospel of Freedom, the Gospel of Man's Force, commanding,
and one day to be all-commanding.

"Detached, separated!  I say there is no such separation:  nothing hitherto
was ever stranded, cast aside; but all, were it only a withered leaf, works
together with all; is borne forward on the bottomless, shoreless flood of
Action, and lives through perpetual metamorphoses.  The withered leaf is
not dead and lost, there are Forces in it and around it, though working in
inverse order; else how could it rot?  Despise not the rag from which man
makes Paper, or the litter from which the earth makes Corn.  Rightly viewed
no meanest object is insignificant; all objects are as windows, through
which the philosophic eye looks into Infinitude itself."

Again, leaving that wondrous Schwarzwald Smithy-Altar, what vacant,
high-sailing air-ships are these, and whither will they sail with us?

"All visible things are emblems; what thou seest is not there on its own
account; strictly taken, is not there at all:  Matter exists only
spiritually, and to represent some Idea, and body it forth.  Hence
Clothes, as despicable as we think them, are so unspeakably significant.
Clothes, from the King's mantle downwards, are emblematic, not of want
only, but of a manifold cunning Victory over Want.  On the other hand, all
Emblematic things are properly Clothes, thought-woven or hand-woven:  must
not the Imagination weave Garments, visible Bodies, wherein the else
invisible creations and inspirations of our Reason are, like Spirits,
revealed, and first become all-powerful; the rather if, as we often see,
the Hand too aid her, and (by wool Clothes or otherwise) reveal such even
to the outward eye?

"Men are properly said to be clothed with Authority, clothed with Beauty,
with Curses, and the like.  Nay, if you consider it, what is Man himself,
and his whole terrestrial Life, but an Emblem; a Clothing or visible
Garment for that divine ME of his, cast hither, like a light-particle, down
from Heaven?  Thus is he said also to be clothed with a Body.

"Language is called the Garment of Thought:  however, it should rather be,
Language is the Flesh-Garment, the Body, of Thought.  I said that
Imagination wove this Flesh-Garment; and does not she?  Metaphors are her
stuff:  examine Language; what, if you except some few primitive elements
(of natural sound), what is it all but Metaphors, recognized as such, or no
longer recognized; still fluid and florid, or now solid-grown and
colorless?  If those same primitive elements are the osseous fixtures in
the Flesh-Garment, Language,—then are Metaphors its muscles and tissues
and living integuments.  An unmetaphorical style you shall in vain seek
for:  is not your very Attention a Stretching-to?  The difference lies
here:  some styles are lean, adust, wiry, the muscle itself seems osseous;
some are even quite pallid, hunger-bitten and dead-looking; while others
again glow in the flush of health and vigorous self-growth, sometimes (as
in my own case) not without an apoplectic tendency.  Moreover, there are
sham Metaphors, which overhanging that same Thought's-Body (best naked),
and deceptively bedizening, or bolstering it out, may be called its false
stuffings, superfluous show-cloaks (Putz-Mantel), and tawdry woollen
rags:  whereof he that runs and reads may gather whole hampers,—and burn

Than which paragraph on Metaphors did the reader ever chance to see a more
surprisingly metaphorical?  However, that is not our chief grievance; the
Professor continues:—

"Why multiply instances?  It is written, the Heavens and the Earth shall
fade away like a Vesture; which indeed they are:  the Time-vesture of the
Eternal.  Whatsoever sensibly exists, whatsoever represents Spirit to
Spirit, is properly a Clothing, a suit of Raiment, put on for a season, and
to be laid off.  Thus in this one pregnant subject of CLOTHES, rightly
understood, is included all that men have thought, dreamed, done, and been:
the whole External Universe and what it holds is but Clothing; and the
essence of all Science lies in the PHILOSOPHY OF CLOTHES."

Towards these dim infinitely expanded regions, close-bordering on the
impalpable Inane, it is not without apprehension, and perpetual
difficulties, that the Editor sees himself journeying and struggling.  Till
lately a cheerful daystar of hope hung before him, in the expected Aid of
Hofrath Heuschrecke; which daystar, however, melts now, not into the red of
morning, but into a vague, gray half-light, uncertain whether dawn of day
or dusk of utter darkness.  For the last week, these so-called Biographical
Documents are in his hand.  By the kindness of a Scottish Hamburg Merchant,
whose name, known to the whole mercantile world, he must not mention; but
whose honorable courtesy, now and often before spontaneously manifested to
him, a mere literary stranger, he cannot soon forget,—the bulky
Weissnichtwo Packet, with all its Custom-house seals, foreign hieroglyphs,
and miscellaneous tokens of Travel, arrived here in perfect safety, and
free of cost. The reader shall now fancy with what hot haste it was broken
up, with what breathless expectation glanced over; and, alas, with what
unquiet disappointment it has, since then, been often thrown down, and
again taken up.

Hofrath Heuschrecke, in a too long-winded Letter, full of compliments,
Weissnichtwo politics, dinners, dining repartees, and other ephemeral
trivialities, proceeds to remind us of what we knew well already:  that
however it may be with Metaphysics, and other abstract Science originating
in the Head (Verstand) alone, no Life-Philosophy (Lebensphilosophie),
such as this of Clothes pretends to be, which originates equally in the
Character (Gemuth), and equally speaks thereto, can attain its
significance till the Character itself is known and seen; "till the
Author's View of the World (Weltansicht), and how he actively and
passively came by such view, are clear:  in short till a Biography of him
has been philosophico-poetically written, and philosophico-poetically
read....  Nay," adds he, "were the speculative scientific Truth even known,
you still, in this inquiring age, ask yourself, Whence came it, and Why,
and How?—and rest not, till, if no better may be, Fancy have shaped out an
answer; and either in the authentic lineaments of Fact, or the forged ones
of Fiction, a complete picture and Genetical History of the Man and his
spiritual Endeavor lies before you.  But why," says the Hofrath, and indeed
say we, "do I dilate on the uses of our Teufelsdrockh's Biography?  The
great Herr Minister von Goethe has penetratingly remarked that Man is
properly the only object that interests man:'  thus I too have noted,
that in Weissnichtwo our whole conversation is little or nothing else but
Biography or Autobiography; ever humano-anecdotical
(menschlich-anekdotisch).  Biography is by nature the most universally
profitable, universally pleasant of all things:  especially Biography of
distinguished individuals.

"By this time, mein Verehrtester (my Most Esteemed)," continues he, with
an eloquence which, unless the words be purloined from Teufelsdrockh, or
some trick of his, as we suspect, is well-nigh unaccountable, "by this time
you are fairly plunged (vertieft) in that mighty forest of
Clothes-Philosophy; and looking round, as all readers do, with astonishment
enough.  Such portions and passages as you have already mastered, and
brought to paper, could not but awaken a strange curiosity touching the
mind they issued from; the perhaps unparalleled psychical mechanism, which
manufactured such matter, and emitted it to the light of day.  Had
Teufelsdrockh also a father and mother; did he, at one time, wear
drivel-bibs, and live on spoon-meat?  Did he ever, in rapture and tears,
clasp a friend's bosom to his; looks he also wistfully into the long
burial-aisle of the Past, where only winds, and their low harsh moan, give
inarticulate answer?  Has he fought duels;—good Heaven! how did he comport
himself when in Love?  By what singular stair-steps, in short, and
subterranean passages, and sloughs of Despair, and steep Pisgah hills, has
he reached this wonderful prophetic Hebron (a true Old-Clothes Jewry) where
he now dwells?

"To all these natural questions the voice of public History is as yet
silent.  Certain only that he has been, and is, a Pilgrim, and Traveller
from a far Country; more or less footsore and travel-soiled; has parted
with road-companions; fallen among thieves, been poisoned by bad cookery,
blistered with bug-bites; nevertheless, at every stage (for they have let
him pass), has had the Bill to discharge.  But the whole particulars of his
Route, his Weather-observations, the picturesque Sketches he took, though
all regularly jotted down (in indelible sympathetic-ink by an invisible
interior Penman), are these nowhere forthcoming?  Perhaps quite lost:  one
other leaf of that mighty Volume (of human Memory) left to fly abroad,
unprinted, unpublished, unbound up, as waste paper; and to rot, the sport
of rainy winds?

"No, verehrtester Herr Herausgeber, in no wise!  I here, by the
unexampled favor you stand in with our Sage, send not a Biography only, but
an Autobiography:  at least the materials for such; wherefrom, if I
misreckon not, your perspicacity will draw fullest insight:  and so the
whole Philosophy and Philosopher of Clothes will stand clear to the
wondering eyes of England, nay thence, through America, through Hindostan,
and the antipodal New Holland, finally conquer (einnehmen) great part of
this terrestrial Planet!"

And now let the sympathizing reader judge of our feeling when, in place of
this same Autobiography with "fullest insight," we find—Six considerable
PAPER-BAGS, carefully sealed, and marked successively, in gilt China-ink,
with the symbols of the Six southern Zodiacal Signs, beginning at Libra; in
the inside of which sealed Bags lie miscellaneous masses of Sheets, and
oftener Shreds and Snips, written in Professor Teufelsdrockh's scarce
legible cursiv-schrift; and treating of all imaginable things under the
Zodiac and above it, but of his own personal history only at rare
intervals, and then in the most enigmatic manner.

Whole fascicles there are, wherein the Professor, or, as he here, speaking
in the third person, calls himself, "the Wanderer," is not once named.
Then again, amidst what seems to be a Metaphysico-theological Disquisition,
"Detached Thoughts on the Steam-engine," or, "The continued Possibility of
Prophecy," we shall meet with some quite private, not unimportant
Biographical fact.  On certain sheets stand Dreams, authentic or not, while
the circumjacent waking Actions are omitted.  Anecdotes, oftenest without
date of place or time, fly loosely on separate slips, like Sibylline
leaves.  Interspersed also are long purely Autobiographical delineations;
yet without connection, without recognizable coherence; so unimportant, so
superfluously minute, they almost remind us of "P.P. Clerk of this Parish."
Thus does famine of intelligence alternate with waste.  Selection, order,
appears to be unknown to the Professor.  In all Bags the same imbroglio;
only perhaps in the Bag Capricorn, and those near it, the confusion a
little worse confounded.  Close by a rather eloquent Oration, "On receiving
the Doctor's-Hat," lie wash-bills, marked bezahlt (settled).  His Travels
are indicated by the Street-Advertisements of the various cities he has
visited; of which Street-Advertisements, in most living tongues, here is
perhaps the completest collection extant.

So that if the Clothes-Volume itself was too like a Chaos, we have now
instead of the solar Luminary that should still it, the airy Limbo which by
intermixture will farther volatilize and discompose it!  As we shall
perhaps see it our duty ultimately to deposit these Six Paper-Bags in the
British Museum, farther description, and all vituperation of them, may be
spared.  Biography or Autobiography of Teufelsdrockh there is, clearly
enough, none to be gleaned here:  at most some sketchy, shadowy fugitive
likeness of him may, by unheard-of efforts, partly of intellect, partly of
imagination, on the side of Editor and of Reader, rise up between them.
Only as a gaseous-chaotic Appendix to that aqueous-chaotic Volume can the
contents of the Six Bags hover round us, and portions thereof be
incorporated with our delineation of it.

Daily and nightly does the Editor sit (with green spectacles) deciphering
these unimaginable Documents from their perplexed cursiv-schrift;
collating them with the almost equally unimaginable Volume, which stands in
legible print.  Over such a universal medley of high and low, of hot, cold,
moist and dry, is he here struggling (by union of like with like, which is
Method) to build a firm Bridge for British travellers.  Never perhaps since
our first Bridge-builders, Sin and Death, built that stupendous Arch from
Hell-gate to the Earth, did any Pontifex, or Pontiff, undertake such a task
as the present Editor.  For in this Arch too, leading, as we humbly
presume, far otherwards than that grand primeval one, the materials are to
be fished up from the weltering deep, and down from the simmering air, here
one mass, there another, and cunningly cemented, while the elements boil
beneath:  nor is there any supernatural force to do it with; but simply the
Diligence and feeble thinking Faculty of an English Editor, endeavoring to
evolve printed Creation out of a German printed and written Chaos, wherein,
as he shoots to and fro in it, gathering, clutching, piecing the Why to the
far-distant Wherefore, his whole Faculty and Self are like to be swallowed

Patiently, under these incessant toils and agitations, does the Editor,
dismissing all anger, see his otherwise robust health declining; some
fraction of his allotted natural sleep nightly leaving him, and little but
an inflamed nervous-system to be looked for.  What is the use of health, or
of life, if not to do some work therewith?  And what work nobler than
transplanting foreign Thought into the barren domestic soil; except indeed
planting Thought of your own, which the fewest are privileged to do?  Wild
as it looks, this Philosophy of Clothes, can we ever reach its real
meaning, promises to reveal new-coming Eras, the first dim rudiments and
already-budding germs of a nobler Era, in Universal History.  Is not such a
prize worth some striving?  Forward with us, courageous reader; be it
towards failure, or towards success!  The latter thou sharest with us; the
former also is not all our own.



In a psychological point of view, it is perhaps questionable whether from
birth and genealogy, how closely scrutinized soever, much insight is to be
gained.  Nevertheless, as in every phenomenon the Beginning remains always
the most notable moment; so, with regard to any great man, we rest not
till, for our scientific profit or not, the whole circumstances of his
first appearance in this Planet, and what manner of Public Entry he made,
are with utmost completeness rendered manifest.  To the Genesis of our
Clothes-Philosopher, then, be this First Chapter consecrated.  Unhappily,
indeed, he seems to be of quite obscure extraction; uncertain, we might
almost say, whether of any:  so that this Genesis of his can properly be
nothing but an Exodus (or transit out of Invisibility into Visibility);
whereof the preliminary portion is nowhere forthcoming.

"In the village of Entepfuhl," thus writes he, in the Bag Libra, on
various Papers, which we arrange with difficulty, "dwelt Andreas Futteral
and his wife; childless, in still seclusion, and cheerful though now
verging towards old age.  Andreas had been grenadier Sergeant, and even
regimental Schoolmaster under Frederick the Great; but now, quitting the
halbert and ferule for the spade and pruning-hook, cultivated a little
Orchard, on the produce of which he, Cincinnatus-like, lived not without
dignity.  Fruits, the peach, the apple, the grape, with other varieties
came in their season; all which Andreas knew how to sell:  on evenings he
smoked largely, or read (as beseemed a regimental Schoolmaster), and talked
to neighbors that would listen about the Victory of Rossbach; and how Fritz
the Only (der Einzige) had once with his own royal lips spoken to him,
had been pleased to say, when Andreas as camp-sentinel demanded the
pass-word, 'Schweig Hund (Peace, hound)!' before any of his
staff-adjutants could answer. 'Das nenn' ich mir einen Konig, There is
what I call a King,' would Andreas exclaim:  'but the smoke of Kunersdorf
was still smarting his eyes.'

"Gretchen, the housewife, won like Desdemona by the deeds rather than the
looks of her now veteran Othello, lived not in altogether military
subordination; for, as Andreas said, 'the womankind will not drill (wer
kann die Weiberchen dressiren):' nevertheless she at heart loved him both
for valor and wisdom; to her a Prussian grenadier Sergeant and Regiment's
Schoolmaster was little other than a Cicero and Cid:  what you see, yet
cannot see over, is as good as infinite.  Nay, was not Andreas in very deed
a man of order, courage, downrightness (Geradheit); that understood
Busching's Geography, had been in the victory of Rossbach, and left for
dead in the camisade of Hochkirch?  The good Gretchen, for all her
fretting, watched over him and hovered round him as only a true
house-mother can:  assiduously she cooked and sewed and scoured for him; so
that not only his old regimental sword and grenadier-cap, but the whole
habitation and environment, where on pegs of honor they hung, looked ever
trim and gay:  a roomy painted Cottage, embowered in fruit-trees and
forest-trees, evergreens and honeysuckles; rising many-colored from amid
shaven grass-plots, flowers struggling in through the very windows; under
its long projecting eaves nothing but garden-tools in methodic piles (to
screen them from rain), and seats where, especially on summer nights, a
King might have wished to sit and smoke, and call it his.  Such a Bauergut
(Copyhold) had Gretchen given her veteran; whose sinewy arms, and
long-disused gardening talent, had made it what you saw.

"Into this umbrageous Man's-nest, one meek yellow evening or dusk, when the
Sun, hidden indeed from terrestrial Entepfuhl, did nevertheless journey
visible and radiant along the celestial Balance (Libra), it was that a
Stranger of reverend aspect entered; and, with grave salutation, stood
before the two rather astonished housemates.  He was close-muffled in a
wide mantle; which without farther parley unfolding, he deposited therefrom
what seemed some Basket, overhung with green Persian silk; saying only:
Ihr lieben Leute, hier bringe ein unschatzbares Verleihen; nehmt es in
aller Acht, sorgfaltigst benutzt es:  mit hohem Lohn, oder wohl mit
schweren Zinsen, wird's einst zuruckgefordert.  'Good Christian people,
here lies for you an invaluable Loan; take all heed thereof, in all
carefulness employ it:  with high recompense, or else with heavy penalty,
will it one day be required back.'  Uttering which singular words, in a
clear, bell-like, forever memorable tone, the Stranger gracefully withdrew;
and before Andreas or his wife, gazing in expectant wonder, had time to
fashion either question or answer, was clean gone.  Neither out of doors
could aught of him be seen or heard; he had vanished in the thickets, in
the dusk; the Orchard-gate stood quietly closed:  the Stranger was gone
once and always.  So sudden had the whole transaction been, in the autumn
stillness and twilight, so gentle, noiseless, that the Futterals could have
fancied it all a trick of Imagination, or some visit from an authentic
Spirit.  Only that the green-silk Basket, such as neither Imagination nor
authentic Spirits are wont to carry, still stood visible and tangible on
their little parlor-table.  Towards this the astonished couple, now with
lit candle, hastily turned their attention.  Lifting the green veil, to see
what invaluable it hid, they descried there, amid down and rich white
wrappages, no Pitt Diamond or Hapsburg Regalia, but, in the softest sleep,
a little red-colored Infant!  Beside it, lay a roll of gold Friedrichs, the
exact amount of which was never publicly known; also a Taufschein
(baptismal certificate), wherein unfortunately nothing but the Name was
decipherable, other document or indication none whatever.

"To wonder and conjecture was unavailing, then and always thenceforth.
Nowhere in Entepfuhl, on the morrow or next day, did tidings transpire of
any such figure as the Stranger; nor could the Traveller, who had passed
through the neighboring Town in coach-and-four, be connected with this
Apparition, except in the way of gratuitous surmise.  Meanwhile, for
Andreas and his wife, the grand practical problem was:  What to do with
this little sleeping red-colored Infant?  Amid amazements and curiosities,
which had to die away without external satisfying, they resolved, as in
such circumstances charitable prudent people needs must, on nursing it,
though with spoon-meat, into whiteness, and if possible into manhood.  The
Heavens smiled on their endeavor:  thus has that same mysterious Individual
ever since had a status for himself in this visible Universe, some modicum
of victual and lodging and parade-ground; and now expanded in bulk, faculty
and knowledge of good and evil, he, as HERR DIOGENES TEUFELSDROCKH,
professes or is ready to profess, perhaps not altogether without effect, in
the new University of Weissnichtwo, the new Science of Things in General."

Our Philosopher declares here, as indeed we should think he well might,
that these facts, first communicated, by the good Gretchen Futteral, In his
twelfth year, "produced on the boyish heart and fancy a quite indelible
impression.  Who this reverend Personage," he says, "that glided into the
Orchard Cottage when the Sun was in Libra, and then, as on spirit's wings,
glided out again, might be?  An inexpressible desire, full of love and of
sadness, has often since struggled within me to shape an answer.  Ever, in
my distresses and my loneliness, has Fantasy turned, full of longing
(sehnsuchtsvoll), to that unknown Father, who perhaps far from me,
perhaps near, either way invisible, might have taken me to his paternal
bosom, there to lie screened from many a woe.  Thou beloved Father, dost
thou still, shut out from me only by thin penetrable curtains of earthly
Space, wend to and fro among the crowd of the living?  Or art thou hidden
by those far thicker curtains of the Everlasting Night, or rather of the
Everlasting Day, through which my mortal eye and outstretched arms need not
strive to reach?  Alas, I know not, and in vain vex myself to know.  More
than once, heart-deluded, have I taken for thee this and the other
noble-looking Stranger; and approached him wistfully, with infinite regard;
but he too had to repel me, he too was not thou.

"And yet, O Man born of Woman," cries the Autobiographer, with one of his
sudden whirls, "wherein is my case peculiar?  Hadst thou, any more than I,
a Father whom thou knowest?  The Andreas and Gretchen, or the Adam and Eve,
who led thee into Life, and for a time suckled and pap-fed thee there, whom
thou namest Father and Mother; these were, like mine, but thy
nursing-father and nursing-mother:  thy true Beginning and Father is in
Heaven, whom with the bodily eye thou shalt never behold, but only with the

"The little green veil," adds he, among much similar moralizing, and
embroiled discoursing, "I yet keep; still more inseparably the Name,
Diogenes Teufelsdrockh.  From the veil can nothing be inferred:  a piece of
now quite faded Persian silk, like thousands of others.  On the Name I have
many times meditated and conjectured; but neither in this lay there any
clew.  That it was my unknown Father's name I must hesitate to believe.  To
no purpose have I searched through all the Herald's Books, in and without
the German Empire, and through all manner of Subscriber-Lists
(Pranumeranten), Militia-Rolls, and other Name-catalogues; extraordinary
names as we have in Germany, the name Teufelsdrockh, except as appended to
my own person, nowhere occurs.  Again, what may the unchristian rather than
Christian 'Diogenes' mean?  Did that reverend Basket-bearer intend, by such
designation, to shadow forth my future destiny, or his own present malign
humor?  Perhaps the latter, perhaps both.  Thou ill-starred Parent, who
like an Ostrich hadst to leave thy ill-starred offspring to be hatched into
self-support by the mere sky-influences of Chance, can thy pilgrimage have
been a smooth one?  Beset by Misfortune thou doubtless hast been; or indeed
by the worst figure of Misfortune, by Misconduct.  Often have I fancied
how, in thy hard life-battle, thou wert shot at, and slung at, wounded,
hand-fettered, hamstrung, browbeaten and bedevilled by the Time-Spirit
(Zeitgeist) in thyself and others, till the good soul first given thee
was seered into grim rage, and thou hadst nothing for it but to leave in me
an indignant appeal to the Future, and living speaking Protest against the
Devil, as that same Spirit not of the Time only, but of Time itself, is
well named!  Which Appeal and Protest, may I now modestly add, was not
perhaps quite lost in air.

"For indeed, as Walter Shandy often insisted, there is much, nay almost
all, in Names.  The Name is the earliest Garment you wrap round the
earth-visiting ME; to which it thenceforth cleaves, more tenaciously (for
there are Names that have lasted nigh thirty centuries) than the very skin.
And now from without, what mystic influences does it not send inwards, even
to the centre; especially in those plastic first-times, when the whole soul
is yet infantine, soft, and the invisible seedgrain will grow to be an all
overshadowing tree!  Names?  Could I unfold the influence of Names, which
are the most important of all Clothings, I were a second greater
Trismegistus.  Not only all common Speech, but Science, Poetry itself is no
other, if thou consider it, than a right Naming.  Adam's first task was
giving names to natural Appearances:  what is ours still but a continuation
of the same; be the Appearances exotic-vegetable, organic, mechanic, stars,
or starry movements (as in Science); or (as in Poetry) passions, virtues,
calamities, God-attributes, Gods?—In a very plain sense the Proverb says,
Call one a thief, and he will steal; in an almost similar sense may we
not perhaps say, Call one Diogenes Teufelsdrockh, and he will open the
Philosophy of Clothes?"

"Meanwhile the incipient Diogenes, like others, all ignorant of his Why,
his How or Whereabout, was opening his eyes to the kind Light; sprawling
out his ten fingers and toes; listening, tasting, feeling; in a word, by
all his Five Senses, still more by his Sixth Sense of Hunger, and a whole
infinitude of inward, spiritual, half-awakened Senses, endeavoring daily to
acquire for himself some knowledge of this strange Universe where he had
arrived, be his task therein what it might.  Infinite was his progress;
thus in some fifteen months, he could perform the miracle of—Speech!  To
breed a fresh Soul, is it not like brooding a fresh (celestial) Egg;
wherein as yet all is formless, powerless; yet by degrees organic elements
and fibres shoot through the watery albumen; and out of vague Sensation
grows Thought, grows Fantasy and Force, and we have Philosophies,
Dynasties, nay Poetries and Religions!

"Young Diogenes, or rather young Gneschen, for by such diminutive had they
in their fondness named him, travelled forward to those high consummations,
by quick yet easy stages.  The Futterals, to avoid vain talk, and moreover
keep the roll of gold Friedrichs safe, gave out that he was a grandnephew;
the orphan of some sister's daughter, suddenly deceased, in Andreas's
distant Prussian birthland; of whom, as of her indigent sorrowing widower,
little enough was known at Entepfuhl.  Heedless of all which, the Nursling
took to his spoon-meat, and throve.  I have heard him noted as a still
infant, that kept his mind much to himself; above all, that seldom or never
cried.  He already felt that time was precious; that he had other work cut
out for him than whimpering."

Such, after utmost painful search and collation among these miscellaneous
Paper-masses, is all the notice we can gather of Herr Teufelsdrockh's
genealogy.  More imperfect, more enigmatic it can seem to few readers than
to us.  The Professor, in whom truly we more and more discern a certain
satirical turn, and deep under-currents of roguish whim, for the present
stands pledged in honor, so we will not doubt him:  but seems it not
conceivable that, by the "good Gretchen Futteral," or some other perhaps
interested party, he has himself been deceived?  Should these sheets,
translated or not, ever reach the Entepfuhl Circulating Library, some
cultivated native of that district might feel called to afford explanation.
Nay, since Books, like invisible scouts, permeate the whole habitable
globe, and Timbuctoo itself is not safe from British Literature, may not
some Copy find out even the mysterious basket-bearing Stranger, who in a
state of extreme senility perhaps still exists; and gently force even him
to disclose himself; to claim openly a son, in whom any father may feel


"HAPPY season of Childhood!" exclaims Teufelsdrockh:  "Kind Nature, that
art to all a bountiful mother; that visitest the poor man's hut with
auroral radiance; and for thy Nursling hast provided a soft swathing of
Love and infinite Hope, wherein he waxes and slumbers, danced round
(umgaukelt) by sweetest Dreams!  If the paternal Cottage still shuts us
in, its roof still screens us; with a Father we have as yet a prophet,
priest and king, and an Obedience that makes us free.  The young spirit has
awakened out of Eternity, and knows not what we mean by Time; as yet Time
is no fast-hurrying stream, but a sportful sunlit ocean; years to the child
are as ages:  ah! the secret of Vicissitude, of that slower or quicker
decay and ceaseless down-rushing of the universal World-fabric, from the
granite mountain to the man or day-moth, is yet unknown; and in a
motionless Universe, we taste, what afterwards in this quick-whirling
Universe is forever denied us, the balm of Rest. Sleep on, thou fair Child,
for thy long rough journey is at hand!  A little while, and thou too shalt
sleep no more, but thy very dreams shall be mimic battles; thou too, with
old Arnauld, wilt have to say in stern patience:  'Rest?  Rest?  Shall I
not have all Eternity to rest in? ' Celestial Nepenthe! though a Pyrrhus
conquer empires, and an Alexander sack the world, he finds thee not; and
thou hast once fallen gently, of thy own accord, on the eyelids, on the
heart of every mother's child.  For as yet, sleep and waking are one:  the
fair Life-garden rustles infinite around, and everywhere is dewy fragrance,
and the budding of Hope; which budding, if in youth, too frost-nipt, it
grow to flowers, will in manhood yield no fruit, but a prickly,
bitter-rinded stone-fruit, of which the fewest can find the kernel."

In such rose-colored light does our Professor, as Poets are wont, look back
on his childhood; the historical details of which (to say nothing of much
other vague oratorical matter) he accordingly dwells on with an almost
wearisome minuteness.  We hear of Entepfuhl standing "in trustful
derangement" among the woody slopes; the paternal Orchard flanking it as
extreme outpost from below; the little Kuhbach gushing kindly by, among
beech-rows, through river after river, into the Donau, into the Black Sea,
into the Atmosphere and Universe; and how "the brave old Linden,"
stretching like a parasol of twenty ells in radius, overtopping all other
rows and clumps, towered up from the central Agora and Campus Martius
of the Village, like its Sacred Tree; and how the old men sat talking under
its shadow (Gneschen often greedily listening), and the wearied laborers
reclined, and the unwearied children sported, and the young men and maidens
often danced to flute-music.  "Glorious summer twilights," cries
Teufelsdrockh, "when the Sun, like a proud Conqueror and Imperial
Taskmaster, turned his back, with his gold-purple emblazonry, and all his
fireclad bodyguard (of Prismatic Colors); and the tired brickmakers of this
clay Earth might steal a little frolic, and those few meek Stars would not
tell of them!"

Then we have long details of the Weinlesen (Vintage), the Harvest-Home,
Christmas, and so forth; with a whole cycle of the Entepfuhl
Children's-games, differing apparently by mere superficial shades from
those of other countries.  Concerning all which, we shall here, for obvious
reasons, say nothing.  What cares the world for our as yet miniature
Philosopher's achievements under that "brave old Linden "?  Or even where
is the use of such practical reflections as the following?  "In all the
sports of Children, were it only in their wanton breakages and defacements,
you shall discern a creative instinct (schaffenden Trieb):  the Mankin
feels that he is a born Man, that his vocation is to work.  The choicest
present you can make him is a Tool; be it knife or pen-gun, for
construction or for destruction; either way it is for Work, for Change.  In
gregarious sports of skill or strength, the Boy trains himself to
Co-operation, for war or peace, as governor or governed:  the little Maid
again, provident of her domestic destiny, takes with preference to Dolls."

Perhaps, however, we may give this anecdote, considering who it is that
relates it:  "My first short-clothes were of yellow serge; or rather, I
should say, my first short-cloth, for the vesture was one and indivisible,
reaching from neck to ankle, a mere body with four limbs:  of which fashion
how little could I then divine the architectural, how much less the moral

More graceful is the following little picture:  "On fine evenings I was
wont to carry forth my supper (bread-crumb boiled in milk), and eat it
out-of-doors.  On the coping of the Orchard-wall, which I could reach by
climbing, or still more easily if Father Andreas would set up the
pruning-ladder, my porringer was placed:  there, many a sunset, have I,
looking at the distant western Mountains, consumed, not without relish, my
evening meal.  Those hues of gold and azure, that hush of World's
expectation as Day died, were still a Hebrew Speech for me; nevertheless I
was looking at the fair illuminated Letters, and had an eye for their

With "the little one's friendship for cattle and poultry" we shall not much
intermeddle.  It may be that hereby he acquired a "certain deeper sympathy
with animated Nature:"  but when, we would ask, saw any man, in a
collection of Biographical Documents, such a piece as this:  "Impressive
enough (bedeutungsvoll) was it to hear, in early morning, the Swineherd's
horn; and know that so many hungry happy quadrupeds were, on all sides,
starting in hot haste to join him, for breakfast on the Heath.  Or to see
them at eventide, all marching in again, with short squeak, almost in
military order; and each, topographically correct, trotting off in
succession to the right or left, through its own lane, to its own dwelling;
till old Kunz, at the Village-head, now left alone, blew his last blast,
and retired for the night.  We are wont to love the Hog chiefly in the form
of Ham; yet did not these bristly thick-skinned beings here manifest
intelligence, perhaps humor of character; at any rate, a touching, trustful
submissiveness to Man,—who, were he but a Swineherd, in darned gabardine,
and leather breeches more resembling slate or discolored-tin breeches, is
still the Hierarch of this lower world?"

It is maintained, by Helvetius and his set, that an infant of genius is
quite the same as any other infant, only that certain surprisingly
favorable influences accompany him through life, especially through
childhood, and expand him, while others lie close-folded and continue
dunces.  Herein, say they, consists the whole difference between an
inspired Prophet and a double-barrelled Game-preserver:  the inner man of
the one has been fostered into generous development; that of the other,
crushed down perhaps by vigor of animal digestion, and the like, has exuded
and evaporated, or at best sleeps now irresuscitably stagnant at the bottom
of his stomach.  "With which opinion," cries Teufelsdrockh, "I should as
soon agree as with this other, that an acorn might, by favorable or
unfavorable influences of soil and climate, be nursed into a cabbage, or
the cabbage-seed into an oak.

"Nevertheless," continues he, "I too acknowledge the all-but omnipotence of
early culture and nurture:  hereby we have either a doddered dwarf bush, or
a high-towering, wide-shadowing tree; either a sick yellow cabbage, or an
edible luxuriant green one.  Of a truth, it is the duty of all men,
especially of all philosophers, to note down with accuracy the
characteristic circumstances of their Education, what furthered, what
hindered, what in any way modified it:  to which duty, nowadays so pressing
for many a German Autobiographer, I also zealously address myself."—Thou
rogue!  Is it by short clothes of yellow serge, and swineherd horns, that
an infant of genius is educated?  And yet, as usual, it ever remains
doubtful whether he is laughing in his sleeve at these Autobiographical
times of ours, or writing from the abundance of his own fond ineptitude.
For he continues:  "If among the ever-streaming currents of Sights,
Hearings, Feelings for Pain or Pleasure, whereby, as in a Magic Hall, young
Gneschen went about environed, I might venture to select and specify,
perhaps these following were also of the number:

"Doubtless, as childish sports call forth Intellect, Activity, so the young
creature's Imagination was stirred up, and a Historical tendency given him
by the narrative habits of Father Andreas; who, with his
battle-reminiscences, and gray austere yet hearty patriarchal aspect, could
not but appear another Ulysses and 'much-enduring Man.'  Eagerly I hung
upon his tales, when listening neighbors enlivened the hearth; from these
perils and these travels, wild and far almost as Hades itself, a dim world
of Adventure expanded itself within me.  Incalculable also was the
knowledge I acquired in standing by the Old Men under the Linden-tree:  the
whole of Immensity was yet new to me; and had not these reverend seniors,
talkative enough, been employed in partial surveys thereof for nigh
fourscore years?  With amazement I began to discover that Entepfuhl stood
in the middle of a Country, of a World; that there was such a thing as
History, as Biography to which I also, one day, by hand and tongue, might

"In a like sense worked the Postwagen (Stage-coach), which, slow-rolling
under its mountains of men and luggage, wended through our Village:
northwards, truly, in the dead of night; yet southwards visibly at
eventide.  Not till my eighth year did I reflect that this Postwagen could
be other than some terrestrial Moon, rising and setting by mere Law of
Nature, like the heavenly one; that it came on made highways, from far
cities towards far cities; weaving them like a monstrous shuttle into
closer and closer union.  It was then that, independently of Schiller's
Wilhelm Tell, I made this not quite insignificant reflection (so true
also in spiritual things):  Any road, this simple Entepfuhl road, will
lead you to the end of the World!

"Why mention our Swallows, which, out of far Africa, as I learned,
threading their way over seas and mountains, corporate cities and
belligerent nations, yearly found themselves with the month of May,
snug-lodged in our Cottage Lobby?  The hospitable Father (for cleanliness'
sake) had fixed a little bracket plumb under their nest:  there they built,
and caught flies, and twittered, and bred; and all, I chiefly, from the
heart loved them.  Bright, nimble creatures, who taught you the
mason-craft; nay, stranger still, gave you a masonic incorporation, almost
social police?  For if, by ill chance, and when time pressed, your House
fell, have I not seen five neighborly Helpers appear next day; and swashing
to and fro, with animated, loud, long-drawn chirpings, and activity almost
super-hirundine, complete it again before nightfall?

"But undoubtedly the grand summary of Entepfuhl child's culture, where as
in a funnel its manifold influences were concentrated and simultaneously
poured down on us, was the annual Cattle-fair.  Here, assembling from all
the four winds, came the elements of an unspeakable hurry-burly.  Nut-brown
maids and nut-brown men, all clear-washed, loud-laughing, bedizened and
beribanded; who came for dancing, for treating, and if possible, for
happiness.  Topbooted Graziers from the North; Swiss Brokers, Italian
Drovers, also topbooted, from the South; these with their subalterns in
leather jerkins, leather skull-caps, and long ox-goads; shouting in
half-articulate speech, amid the inarticulate barking and bellowing.  Apart
stood Potters from far Saxony, with their crockery in fair rows; Nurnberg
Pedlers, in booths that to me seemed richer than Ormuz bazaars; Showmen
from the Lago Maggiore; detachments of the Wiener Schub (Offscourings of
Vienna) vociferously superintending games of chance.  Ballad-singers
brayed, Auctioneers grew hoarse; cheap New Wine (heuriger) flowed like
water, still worse confounding the confusion; and high over all, vaulted,
in ground-and-lofty tumbling, a particolored Merry-Andrew, like the genius
of the place and of Life itself.

"Thus encircled by the mystery of Existence; under the deep heavenly
Firmament; waited on by the four golden Seasons, with their vicissitudes of
contribution, for even grim Winter brought its skating-matches and
shooting-matches, its snow-storms and Christmas-carols,—did the Child sit
and learn.  These things were the Alphabet, whereby in aftertime he was to
syllable and partly read the grand Volume of the World:  what matters it
whether such Alphabet be in large gilt letters or in small ungilt ones, so
you have an eye to read it?  For Gneschen, eager to learn, the very act of
looking thereon was a blessedness that gilded all:  his existence was a
bright, soft element of Joy; out of which, as in Prospero's Island, wonder
after wonder bodied itself forth, to teach by charming.

"Nevertheless, I were but a vain dreamer to say, that even then my felicity
was perfect.  I had, once for all, come down from Heaven into the Earth.
Among the rainbow colors that glowed on my horizon, lay even in childhood a
dark ring of Care, as yet no thicker than a thread, and often quite
overshone; yet always it reappeared, nay ever waxing broader and broader;
till in after-years it almost overshadowed my whole canopy, and threatened
to engulf me in final night.  It was the ring of Necessity whereby we are
all begirt; happy he for whom a kind heavenly Sun brightens it into a ring
of Duty, and plays round it with beautiful prismatic diffractions; yet
ever, as basis and as bourn for our whole being, it is there.

"For the first few years of our terrestrial Apprenticeship, we have not
much work to do; but, boarded and lodged gratis, are set down mostly to
look about us over the workshop, and see others work, till we have
understood the tools a little, and can handle this and that.  If good
Passivity alone, and not good Passivity and good Activity together, were
the thing wanted, then was my early position favorable beyond the most.  In
all that respects openness of Sense, affectionate Temper, ingenuous
Curiosity, and the fostering of these, what more could I have wished?  On
the other side, however, things went not so well.  My Active Power
(Thatkraft) was unfavorably hemmed in; of which misfortune how many
traces yet abide with me!  In an orderly house, where the litter of
children's sports is hateful enough, your training is too stoical; rather
to bear and forbear than to make and do. I was forbid much:  wishes in any
measure bold I had to renounce; everywhere a strait bond of Obedience
inflexibly held me down.  Thus already Freewill often came in painful
collision with Necessity; so that my tears flowed, and at seasons the Child
itself might taste that root of bitterness, wherewith the whole fruitage of
our life is mingled and tempered.

"In which habituation to Obedience, truly, it was beyond measure safer to
err by excess than by defect.  Obedience is our universal duty and destiny;
wherein whoso will not bend must break:  too early and too thoroughly we
cannot be trained to know that Would, in this world of ours, is as mere
zero to Should, and for most part as the smallest of fractions even to
Shall.  Hereby was laid for me the basis of worldly Discretion, nay of
Morality itself.  Let me not quarrel with my upbringing.  It was rigorous,
too frugal, compressively secluded, every way unscientific:  yet in that
very strictness and domestic solitude might there not lie the root of
deeper earnestness, of the stem from which all noble fruit must grow?
Above all, how unskilful soever, it was loving, it was well-meant, honest;
whereby every deficiency was helped.  My kind Mother, for as such I must
ever love the good Gretchen, did me one altogether invaluable service:  she
taught me, less indeed by word than by act and daily reverent look and
habitude, her own simple version of the Christian Faith.  Andreas too
attended Church; yet more like a parade-duty, for which he in the other
world expected pay with arrears,—as, I trust, he has received; but my
Mother, with a true woman's heart, and fine though uncultivated sense, was
in the strictest acceptation Religious.  How indestructibly the Good grows,
and propagates itself, even among the weedy entanglements of Evil!  The
highest whom I knew on Earth I here saw bowed down, with awe unspeakable,
before a Higher in Heaven:  such things, especially in infancy, reach
inwards to the very core of your being; mysteriously does a Holy of Holies
build itself into visibility in the mysterious deeps; and Reverence, the
divinest in man, springs forth undying from its mean envelopment of Fear.
Wouldst thou rather be a peasant's son that knew, were it never so rudely,
there was a God in Heaven and in Man; or a duke's son that only knew there
were two-and-thirty quarters on the family-coach?"

To which last question we must answer:  Beware, O Teufelsdrockh, of
spiritual pride!


Hitherto we see young Gneschen, in his indivisible case of yellow serge,
borne forward mostly on the arms of kind Nature alone; seated, indeed, and
much to his mind, in the terrestrial workshop, but (except his soft hazel
eyes, which we doubt not already gleamed with a still intelligence) called
upon for little voluntary movement there.  Hitherto, accordingly, his
aspect is rather generic, that of an incipient Philosopher and Poet in the
abstract; perhaps it would puzzle Herr Heuschrecke himself to say wherein
the special Doctrine of Clothes is as yet foreshadowed or betokened.  For
with Gneschen, as with others, the Man may indeed stand pictured in the Boy
(at least all the pigments are there); yet only some half of the Man stands
in the Child, or young Boy, namely, his Passive endowment, not his Active.
The more impatient are we to discover what figure he cuts in this latter
capacity; how, when, to use his own words, "he understands the tools a
little, and can handle this or that," he will proceed to handle it.

Here, however, may be the place to state that, in much of our Philosopher's
history, there is something of an almost Hindoo character:  nay perhaps in
that so well-fostered and every way excellent "Passivity" of his, which,
with no free development of the antagonist Activity, distinguished his
childhood, we may detect the rudiments of much that, in after days, and
still in these present days, astonishes the world.  For the
shallow-sighted, Teufelsdrockh is oftenest a man without Activity of any
kind, a No-man; for the deep-sighted, again, a man with Activity almost
superabundant, yet so spiritual, close-hidden, enigmatic, that no mortal
can foresee its explosions, or even when it has exploded, so much as
ascertain its significance.  A dangerous, difficult temper for the modern
European; above all, disadvantageous in the hero of a Biography!  Now as
heretofore it will behoove the Editor of these pages, were it never so
unsuccessfully, to do his endeavor.

Among the earliest tools of any complicacy which a man, especially a man of
letters, gets to handle, are his Class-books.  On this portion of his
History, Teufelsdrockh looks down professedly as indifferent.  Reading he
"cannot remember ever to have learned;" so perhaps had it by nature.  He
says generally:  "Of the insignificant portion of my Education, which
depended on Schools, there need almost no notice be taken.  I learned what
others learn; and kept it stored by in a corner of my head, seeing as yet
no manner of use in it.  My Schoolmaster, a down-bent, broken-hearted,
underfoot martyr, as others of that guild are, did little for me, except
discover that he could do little:  he, good soul, pronounced me a genius,
fit for the learned professions; and that I must be sent to the Gymnasium,
and one day to the University.  Meanwhile, what printed thing soever I
could meet with I read.  My very copper pocket-money I laid out on
stall-literature; which, as it accumulated, I with my own hands sewed into
volumes.  By this means was the young head furnished with a considerable
miscellany of things and shadows of things:  History in authentic fragments
lay mingled with Fabulous chimeras, wherein also was reality; and the whole
not as dead stuff, but as living pabulum, tolerably nutritive for a mind as
yet so peptic."

That the Entepfuhl Schoolmaster judged well, we now know.  Indeed, already
in the youthful Gneschen, with all his outward stillness, there may have
been manifest an inward vivacity that promised much; symptoms of a spirit
singularly open, thoughtful, almost poetical.  Thus, to say nothing of his
Suppers on the Orchard-wall, and other phenomena of that earlier period,
have many readers of these pages stumbled, in their twelfth year, on such
reflections as the following?  "It struck me much, as I sat by the Kuhbach,
one silent noontide, and watched it flowing, gurgling, to think how this
same streamlet had flowed and gurgled, through all changes of weather and
of fortune, from beyond the earliest date of History.  Yes, probably on the
morning when Joshua forded Jordan; even as at the mid-day when Caesar,
doubtless with difficulty, swam the Nile, yet kept his Commentaries
dry,—this little Kuhbach, assiduous as Tiber, Eurotas or Siloa, was
murmuring on across the wilderness, as yet unnamed, unseen:  here, too, as
in the Euphrates and the Ganges, is a vein or veinlet of the grand
World-circulation of Waters, which, with its atmospheric arteries, has
lasted and lasts simply with the World.  Thou fool!  Nature alone is
antique, and the oldest art a mushroom; that idle crag thou sittest on is
six thousand years of age."  In which little thought, as in a little
fountain, may there not lie the beginning of those well-nigh unutterable
meditations on the grandeur and mystery of TIME, and its relation to
ETERNITY, which play such a part in this Philosophy of Clothes?

Over his Gymnasic and Academic years the Professor by no means lingers so
lyrical and joyful as over his childhood.  Green sunny tracts there are
still; but intersected by bitter rivulets of tears, here and there
stagnating into sour marshes of discontent.  "With my first view of the
Hinterschlag Gymnasium," writes he, "my evil days began.  Well do I still
remember the red sunny Whitsuntide morning, when, trotting full of hope by
the side of Father Andreas, I entered the main street of the place, and saw
its steeple-clock (then striking Eight) and Schuldthurm (Jail), and the
aproned or disaproned Burghers moving in to breakfast:  a little dog, in
mad terror, was rushing past; for some human imps had tied a tin kettle to
its tail; thus did the agonized creature, loud-jingling, career through the
whole length of the Borough, and become notable enough.  Fit emblem of many
a Conquering Hero, to whom Fate (wedding Fantasy to Sense, as it often
elsewhere does) has malignantly appended a tin kettle of Ambition, to chase
him on; which the faster he runs, urges him the faster, the more loudly and
more foolishly!  Fit emblem also of much that awaited myself, in that
mischievous Den; as in the World, whereof it was a portion and epitome!

"Alas, the kind beech-rows of Entepfuhl were hidden in the distance:  I was
among strangers, harshly, at best indifferently, disposed towards me; the
young heart felt, for the first time, quite orphaned and alone."  His
school-fellows, as is usual, persecuted him:  "They were Boys," he says,
"mostly rude Boys, and obeyed the impulse of rude Nature, which bids the
deer-herd fall upon any stricken hart, the duck-flock put to death any
broken-winged brother or sister, and on all hands the strong tyrannize over
the weak."  He admits that though "perhaps in an unusual degree morally
courageous," he succeeded ill in battle, and would fain have avoided it; a
result, as would appear, owing less to his small personal stature (for in
passionate seasons he was "incredibly nimble"), than to his "virtuous
principles:"  "if it was disgraceful to be beaten," says he, "it was only a
shade less disgraceful to have so much as fought; thus was I drawn two ways
at once, and in this important element of school-history, the war-element,
had little but sorrow."  On the whole, that same excellent "Passivity," so
notable in Teufelsdrockh's childhood, is here visibly enough again getting
nourishment.  "He wept often; indeed to such a degree that he was nicknamed
Der Weinende (the Tearful), which epithet, till towards his thirteenth
year, was indeed not quite unmerited.  Only at rare intervals did the young
soul burst forth into fire-eyed rage, and, with a stormfulness (Ungestum)
under which the boldest quailed, assert that he too had Rights of Man, or
at least of Mankin."  In all which, who does not discern a fine flower-tree
and cinnamon-tree (of genius) nigh choked among pumpkins, reed-grass and
ignoble shrubs; and forced if it would live, to struggle upwards only, and
not outwards; into a height quite sickly, and disproportioned to its

We find, moreover, that his Greek and Latin were "mechanically" taught;
Hebrew scarce even mechanically; much else which they called History,
Cosmography, Philosophy, and so forth, no better than not at all.  So that,
except inasmuch as Nature was still busy; and he himself "went about, as
was of old his wont, among the Craftsmen's workshops, there learning many
things;" and farther lighted on some small store of curious reading, in
Hans Wachtel the Cooper's house, where he lodged,—his time, it would
appear, was utterly wasted.  Which facts the Professor has not yet learned
to look upon with any contentment.  Indeed, throughout the whole of this
Bag Scorpio, where we now are, and often in the following Bag, he shows
himself unusually animated on the matter of Education, and not without some
touch of what we might presume to be anger.

"My Teachers," says he, "were hide-bound Pedants, without knowledge of
man's nature, or of boy's; or of aught save their lexicons and quarterly
account-books.  Innumerable dead Vocables (no dead Language, for they
themselves knew no Language) they crammed into us, and called it fostering
the growth of mind.  How can an inanimate, mechanical Gerund-grinder, the
like of whom will, in a subsequent century, be manufactured at Nurnberg out
of wood and leather, foster the growth of anything; much more of Mind,
which grows, not like a vegetable (by having its roots littered with
etymological compost), but like a spirit, by mysterious contact of Spirit;
Thought kindling itself at the fire of living Thought?  How shall he give
kindling, in whose own inward man there is no live coal, but all is burnt
out to a dead grammatical cinder?  The Hinterschlag Professors knew syntax
enough; and of the human soul thus much:  that it had a faculty called
Memory, and could be acted on through the muscular integument by appliance
of birch-rods.

"Alas, so is it everywhere, so will it ever be; till the Hod-man is
discharged, or reduced to hod-bearing; and an Architect is hired, and on
all hands fitly encouraged:  till communities and individuals discover, not
without surprise, that fashioning the souls of a generation by Knowledge
can rank on a level with blowing their bodies to pieces by Gunpowder; that
with Generals and Field-marshals for killing, there should be world-honored
Dignitaries, and were it possible, true God-ordained Priests, for teaching.
But as yet, though the Soldier wears openly, and even parades, his
butchering-tool, nowhere, far as I have travelled, did the Schoolmaster
make show of his instructing-tool:  nay, were he to walk abroad with birch
girt on thigh, as if he therefrom expected honor, would there not, among
the idler class, perhaps a certain levity be excited?"

In the third year of this Gymnasic period, Father Andreas seems to have
died:  the young Scholar, otherwise so maltreated, saw himself for the
first time clad outwardly in sables, and inwardly in quite inexpressible
melancholy.  "The dark bottomless Abyss, that lies under our feet, had
yawned open; the pale kingdoms of Death, with all their innumerable silent
nations and generations, stood before him; the inexorable word, NEVER! now
first showed its meaning.  My Mother wept, and her sorrow got vent; but in
my heart there lay a whole lake of tears, pent up in silent desolation.
Nevertheless the unworn Spirit is strong; Life is so healthful that it even
finds nourishment in Death:  these stern experiences, planted down by
Memory in my Imagination, rose there to a whole cypress-forest, sad but
beautiful; waving, with not unmelodious sighs, in dark luxuriance, in the
hottest sunshine, through long years of youth:—as in manhood also it does,
and will do; for I have now pitched my tent under a Cypress-tree; the Tomb
is now my inexpugnable Fortress, ever close by the gate of which I look
upon the hostile armaments, and pains and penalties of tyrannous Life
placidly enough, and listen to its loudest threatenings with a still smile.
O ye loved ones, that already sleep in the noiseless Bed of Rest, whom in
life I could only weep for and never help; and ye, who wide-scattered still
toil lonely in the monster-bearing Desert, dyeing the flinty ground with
your blood,—yet a little while, and we shall all meet THERE, and our
Mother's bosom will screen us all; and Oppression's harness, and Sorrow's
fire-whip, and all the Gehenna Bailiffs that patrol and inhabit ever-vexed
Time, cannot thenceforth harm us any more! "

Close by which rather beautiful apostrophe, lies a labored Character of the
deceased Andreas Futteral; of his natural ability, his deserts in life (as
Prussian Sergeant); with long historical inquiries into the genealogy of
the Futteral Family, here traced back as far as Henry the Fowler:  the
whole of which we pass over, not without astonishment.  It only concerns us
to add, that now was the time when Mother Gretchen revealed to her
foster-son that he was not at all of this kindred; or indeed of any
kindred, having come into historical existence in the way already known to
us.  "Thus was I doubly orphaned," says he; "bereft not only of Possession,
but even of Remembrance.  Sorrow and Wonder, here suddenly united, could
not but produce abundant fruit.  Such a disclosure, in such a season,
struck its roots through my whole nature:  ever till the years of mature
manhood, it mingled with my whole thoughts, was as the stem whereon all my
day-dreams and night-dreams grew.  A certain poetic elevation, yet also a
corresponding civic depression, it naturally imparted: I was like no
other; in which fixed idea, leading sometimes to highest, and oftener to
frightfullest results, may there not lie the first spring of tendencies,
which in my Life have become remarkable enough?  As in birth, so in action,
speculation, and social position, my fellows are perhaps not numerous."

In the Bag Sagittarius, as we at length discover, Teufelsdrockh has
become a University man; though how, when, or of what quality, will nowhere
disclose itself with the smallest certainty.  Few things, in the way of
confusion and capricious indistinctness, can now surprise our readers; not
even the total want of dates, almost without parallel in a Biographical
work.  So enigmatic, so chaotic we have always found, and must always look
to find, these scattered Leaves.  In Sagittarius, however, Teufelsdrockh
begins to show himself even more than usually Sibylline:  fragments of all
sorts:  scraps of regular Memoir, College-Exercises, Programs, Professional
Testimoniums, Milkscores, torn Billets, sometimes to appearance of an
amatory cast; all blown together as if by merest chance, henceforth
bewilder the sane Historian.  To combine any picture of these University,
and the subsequent, years; much more, to decipher therein any illustrative
primordial elements of the Clothes-Philosophy, becomes such a problem as
the reader may imagine.

So much we can see; darkly, as through the foliage of some wavering
thicket:  a youth of no common endowment, who has passed happily through
Childhood, less happily yet still vigorously through Boyhood, now at length
perfect in "dead vocables," and set down, as he hopes, by the living
Fountain, there to superadd Ideas and Capabilities.  From such Fountain he
draws, diligently, thirstily, yet never or seldom with his whole heart, for
the water nowise suits his palate; discouragements, entanglements,
aberrations are discoverable or supposable.  Nor perhaps are even pecuniary
distresses wanting; for "the good Gretchen, who in spite of advices from
not disinterested relatives has sent him hither, must after a time withdraw
her willing but too feeble hand."  Nevertheless in an atmosphere of Poverty
and manifold Chagrin, the Humor of that young Soul, what character is in
him, first decisively reveals itself; and, like strong sunshine in weeping
skies, gives out variety of colors, some of which are prismatic.  Thus,
with the aid of Time and of what Time brings, has the stripling Diogenes
Teufelsdrockh waxed into manly stature; and into so questionable an aspect,
that we ask with new eagerness, How he specially came by it, and regret
anew that there is no more explicit answer.  Certain of the intelligible
and partially significant fragments, which are few in number, shall be
extracted from that Limbo of a Paper-bag, and presented with the usual

As if, in the Bag Scorpio, Teufelsdrockh had not already expectorated his
antipedagogic spleen; as if, from the name Sagittarius, he had thought
himself called upon to shoot arrows, we here again fall in with such matter
as this:  "The University where I was educated still stands vivid enough in
my remembrance, and I know its name well; which name, however, I, from
tenderness to existing interests and persons, shall in nowise divulge.  It
is my painful duty to say that, out of England and Spain, ours was the
worst of all hitherto discovered Universities.  This is indeed a time when
right Education is, as nearly as may be, impossible:  however, in degrees
of wrongness there is no limit:  nay, I can conceive a worse system than
that of the Nameless itself; as poisoned victual may be worse than absolute

"It is written, When the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the
ditch:  wherefore, in such circumstances, may it not sometimes be safer, if
both leader and led simply—sit still?  Had you, anywhere in Crim Tartary,
walled in a square enclosure; furnished it with a small, ill-chosen
Library; and then turned loose into it eleven hundred Christian striplings,
to tumble about as they listed, from three to seven years:  certain
persons, under the title of Professors, being stationed at the gates, to
declare aloud that it was a University, and exact considerable
admission-fees,—you had, not indeed in mechanical structure, yet in spirit
and result, some imperfect resemblance of our High Seminary.  I say,
imperfect; for if our mechanical structure was quite other, so neither was
our result altogether the same:  unhappily, we were not in Crim Tartary,
but in a corrupt European city, full of smoke and sin; moreover, in the
middle of a Public, which, without far costlier apparatus than that of the
Square Enclosure, and Declaration aloud, you could not be sure of gulling.

"Gullible, however, by fit apparatus, all Publics are; and gulled, with the
most surprising profit.  Towards anything like a Statistics of Imposture,
indeed, little as yet has been done:  with a strange indifference, our
Economists, nigh buried under Tables for minor Branches of Industry, have
altogether overlooked the grand all-overtopping Hypocrisy Branch; as if our
whole arts of Puffery, of Quackery, Priestcraft, Kingcraft, and the
innumerable other crafts and mysteries of that genus, had not ranked in
Productive Industry at all!  Can any one, for example, so much as say, What
moneys, in Literature and Shoeblacking, are realized by actual Instruction
and actual jet Polish; what by fictitious-persuasive Proclamation of such;
specifying, in distinct items, the distributions, circulations,
disbursements, incomings of said moneys, with the smallest approach to
accuracy?  But to ask, How far, in all the several infinitely complected
departments of social business, in government, education, in manual,
commercial, intellectual fabrication of every sort, man's Want is supplied
by true Ware; how far by the mere Appearance of true Ware:—in other words,
To what extent, by what methods, with what effects, in various times and
countries, Deception takes the place of wages of Performance:  here truly
is an Inquiry big with results for the future time, but to which hitherto
only the vaguest answer can be given.  If for the present, in our Europe,
we estimate the ratio of Ware to Appearance of Ware so high even as at One
to a Hundred (which, considering the Wages of a Pope, Russian Autocrat, or
English Game-Preserver, is probably not far from the mark),—what almost
prodigious saving may there not be anticipated, as the Statistics of
Imposture advances, and so the manufacturing of Shams (that of Realities
rising into clearer and clearer distinction therefrom) gradually declines,
and at length becomes all but wholly unnecessary!

"This for the coming golden ages.  What I had to remark, for the present
brazen one, is, that in several provinces, as in Education, Polity,
Religion, where so much is wanted and indispensable, and so little can as
yet be furnished, probably Imposture is of sanative, anodyne nature, and
man's Gullibility not his worst blessing.  Suppose your sinews of war quite
broken; I mean your military chest insolvent, forage all but exhausted; and
that the whole army is about to mutiny, disband, and cut your and each
other's throat,—then were it not well could you, as if by miracle, pay
them in any sort of fairy-money, feed them on coagulated water, or mere
imagination of meat; whereby, till the real supply came up, they might be
kept together and quiet?  Such perhaps was the aim of Nature, who does
nothing without aim, in furnishing her favorite, Man, with this his so
omnipotent or rather omnipatient Talent of being Gulled.

"How beautifully it works, with a little mechanism; nay, almost makes
mechanism for itself!  These Professors in the Nameless lived with ease,
with safety, by a mere Reputation, constructed in past times, and then too
with no great effort, by quite another class of persons.  Which Reputation,
like a strong brisk-going undershot wheel, sunk into the general current,
bade fair, with only a little annual re-painting on their part, to hold
long together, and of its own accord assiduously grind for them.  Happy
that it was so, for the Millers!  They themselves needed not to work; their
attempts at working, at what they called Educating, now when I look back on
it, fill me with a certain mute admiration.

"Besides all this, we boasted ourselves a Rational University; in the
highest degree hostile to Mysticism; thus was the young vacant mind
furnished with much talk about Progress of the Species, Dark Ages,
Prejudice, and the like; so that all were quickly enough blown out into a
state of windy argumentativeness; whereby the better sort had soon to end
in sick, impotent Scepticism; the worser sort explode (erepiren) in
finished Self-conceit, and to all spiritual intents become dead.—But this
too is portion of mankind's lot.  If our era is the Era of Unbelief, why
murmur under it; is there not a better coming, nay come?  As in long-drawn
systole and long-drawn diastole, must the period of Faith alternate with
the period of Denial; must the vernal growth, the summer luxuriance of all
Opinions, Spiritual Representations and Creations, be followed by, and
again follow, the autumnal decay, the winter dissolution.  For man lives in
Time, has his whole earthly being, endeavor and destiny shaped for him by
Time:  only in the transitory Time-Symbol is the ever-motionless Eternity
we stand on made manifest. And yet, in such winter-seasons of Denial, it is
for the nobler-minded perhaps a comparative misery to have been born, and
to be awake and work; and for the duller a felicity, if, like hibernating
animals, safe-lodged in some Salamanca University or Sybaris City, or other
superstitious or voluptuous Castle of Indolence, they can slumber through,
in stupid dreams, and only awaken when the loud-roaring hailstorms have all
alone their work, and to our prayers and martyrdoms the new Spring has been

That in the environment, here mysteriously enough shadowed forth,
Teufelsdrockh must have felt ill at ease, cannot be doubtful.  "The hungry
young," he says, "looked up to their spiritual Nurses; and, for food, were
bidden eat the east-wind.  What vain jargon of controversial Metaphysic,
Etymology, and mechanical Manipulation falsely named Science, was current
there, I indeed learned, better perhaps than the most.  Among eleven
hundred Christian youths, there will not be wanting some eleven eager to
learn.  By collision with such, a certain warmth, a certain polish was
communicated; by instinct and happy accident, I took less to rioting
(renommiren), than to thinking and reading, which latter also I was free
to do.  Nay from the chaos of that Library, I succeeded in fishing up more
books perhaps than had been known to the very keepers thereof.  The
foundation of a Literary Life was hereby laid:  I learned, on my own
strength, to read fluently in almost all cultivated languages, on almost
all subjects and sciences; farther, as man is ever the prime object to man,
already it was my favorite employment to read character in speculation, and
from the Writing to construe the Writer.  A certain groundplan of Human
Nature and Life began to fashion itself in me; wondrous enough, now when I
look back on it; for my whole Universe, physical and spiritual, was as yet
a Machine!  However, such a conscious, recognized groundplan, the truest I
had, was beginning to be there, and by additional experiments might be
corrected and indefinitely extended."

Thus from poverty does the strong educe nobler wealth; thus in the
destitution of the wild desert does our young Ishmael acquire for himself
the highest of all possessions, that of Self-help.  Nevertheless a desert
this was, waste, and howling with savage monsters.  Teufelsdrockh gives us
long details of his "fever-paroxysms of Doubt;" his Inquiries concerning
Miracles, and the Evidences of religious Faith; and how "in the silent
night-watches, still darker in his heart than over sky and earth, he has
cast himself before the All-seeing, and with audible prayers cried
vehemently for Light, for deliverance from Death and the Grave.  Not till
after long years, and unspeakable agonies, did the believing heart
surrender; sink into spell-bound sleep, under the nightmare, Unbelief; and,
in this hag-ridden dream, mistake God's fair living world for a pallid,
vacant Hades and extinct Pandemonium.  But through such Purgatory pain,"
continues he, "it is appointed us to pass; first must the dead Letter of
Religion own itself dead, and drop piecemeal into dust, if the living
Spirit of Religion, freed from this its charnel-house, is to arise on us,
new-born of Heaven, and with new healing under its wings."

To which Purgatory pains, seemingly severe enough, if we add a liberal
measure of Earthly distresses, want of practical guidance, want of
sympathy, want of money, want of hope; and all this in the fervid season of
youth, so exaggerated in imagining, so boundless in desires, yet here so
poor in means,—do we not see a strong incipient spirit oppressed and
overloaded from without and from within; the fire of genius struggling up
among fuel-wood of the greenest, and as yet with more of bitter vapor than
of clear flame?

From various fragments of Letters and other documentary scraps, it is to be
inferred that Teufelsdrockh, isolated, shy, retiring as he was, had not
altogether escaped notice:  certain established men are aware of his
existence; and, if stretching out no helpful hand, have at least their eyes
on him.  He appears, though in dreary enough humor, to be addressing
himself to the Profession of Law;—whereof, indeed, the world has since
seen him a public graduate.  But omitting these broken, unsatisfactory
thrums of Economical relation, let us present rather the following small
thread of Moral relation; and therewith, the reader for himself weaving it
in at the right place, conclude our dim arras-picture of these University

"Here also it was that I formed acquaintance with Herr Towgood, or, as it
is perhaps better written, Herr Toughgut; a young person of quality (von
Adel), from the interior parts of England.  He stood connected, by blood
and hospitality, with the Counts von Zahdarm, in this quarter of Germany;
to which noble Family I likewise was, by his means, with all friendliness,
brought near.  Towgood had a fair talent, unspeakably ill-cultivated; with
considerable humor of character:  and, bating his total ignorance, for he
knew nothing except Boxing and a little Grammar, showed less of that
aristocratic impassivity, and silent fury, than for most part belongs to
Travellers of his nation.  To him I owe my first practical knowledge of the
English and their ways; perhaps also something of the partiality with which
I have ever since regarded that singular people.  Towgood was not without
an eye, could he have come at any light.  Invited doubtless by the presence
of the Zahdarm Family, he had travelled hither, in the almost frantic hope
of perfecting his studies; he, whose studies had as yet been those of
infancy, hither to a University where so much as the notion of perfection,
not to say the effort after it, no longer existed!  Often we would condole
over the hard destiny of the Young in this era:  how, after all our toil,
we were to be turned out into the world, with beards on our chins indeed,
but with few other attributes of manhood; no existing thing that we were
trained to Act on, nothing that we could so much as Believe.  'How has our
head on the outside a polished Hat,' would Towgood exclaim, 'and in the
inside Vacancy, or a froth of Vocables and Attorney-Logic!  At a small cost
men are educated to make leather into shoes; but at a great cost, what am I
educated to make?  By Heaven, Brother! what I have already eaten and worn,
as I came thus far, would endow a considerable Hospital of
Incurables.'—'Man, indeed,' I would answer, 'has a Digestive Faculty,
which must be kept working, were it even partly by stealth.  But as for our
Miseducation, make not bad worse; waste not the time yet ours, in trampling
on thistles because they have yielded us no figs.  Frisch zu, Bruder!
Here are Books, and we have brains to read them; here is a whole Earth and
a whole Heaven, and we have eyes to look on them:  Frisch zu!'

"Often also our talk was gay; not without brilliancy, and even fire.  We
looked out on Life, with its strange scaffolding, where all at once
harlequins dance, and men are beheaded and quartered:  motley, not
unterrific was the aspect; but we looked on it like brave youths.  For
myself, these were perhaps my most genial hours.  Towards this young
warm-hearted, strong-headed and wrong-headed Herr Towgood I was even near
experiencing the now obsolete sentiment of Friendship.  Yes, foolish
Heathen that I was, I felt that, under certain conditions, I could have
loved this man, and taken him to my bosom, and been his brother once and
always.  By degrees, however, I understood the new time, and its wants.  If
man's Soul is indeed, as in the Finnish Language, and Utilitarian
Philosophy, a kind of Stomach, what else is the true meaning of Spiritual
Union but an Eating together?  Thus we, instead of Friends, are
Dinner-guests; and here as elsewhere have cast away chimeras."

So ends, abruptly as is usual, and enigmatically, this little incipient
romance.  What henceforth becomes of the brave Herr Towgood, or Toughgut?
He has dived under, in the Autobiographical Chaos, and swims we see not
where.  Does any reader "in the interior parts of England" know of such a


"Thus nevertheless," writes our Autobiographer, apparently as quitting
College, "was there realized Somewhat; namely, I, Diogenes Teufelsdrockh:
a visible Temporary Figure (Zeitbild), occupying some cubic feet of
Space, and containing within it Forces both physical and spiritual; hopes,
passions, thoughts; the whole wondrous furniture, in more or less
perfection, belonging to that mystery, a Man.  Capabilities there were in
me to give battle, in some small degree, against the great Empire of
Darkness:  does not the very Ditcher and Delver, with his spade, extinguish
many a thistle and puddle; and so leave a little Order, where he found the
opposite?  Nay your very Day-moth has capabilities in this kind; and ever
organizes something (into its own Body, if no otherwise), which was before
Inorganic; and of mute dead air makes living music, though only of the
faintest, by humming.

"How much more, one whose capabilities are spiritual; who has learned, or
begun learning, the grand thaumaturgic art of Thought!  Thaumaturgic I name
it; for hitherto all Miracles have been wrought thereby, and henceforth
innumerable will be wrought; whereof we, even in these days, witness some.
Of the Poet's and Prophet's inspired Message, and how it makes and unmakes
whole worlds, I shall forbear mention:  but cannot the dullest hear
Steam-engines clanking around him?  Has he not seen the Scottish
Brass-smith's IDEA (and this but a mechanical one) travelling on fire-wings
round the Cape, and across two Oceans; and stronger than any other
Enchanter's Familiar, on all hands unweariedly fetching and carrying:  at
home, not only weaving Cloth; but rapidly enough overturning the whole old
system of Society; and, for Feudalism and Preservation of the Game,
preparing us, by indirect but sure methods, Industrialism and the
Government of the Wisest?  Truly a Thinking Man is the worst enemy the
Prince of Darkness can have; every time such a one announces himself, I
doubt not, there runs a shudder through the Nether Empire; and new
Emissaries are trained, with new tactics, to, if possible, entrap him, and
hoodwink and handcuff him.

"With such high vocation had I too, as denizen of the Universe, been
called.  Unhappy it is, however, that though born to the amplest
Sovereignty, in this way, with no less than sovereign right of Peace and
War against the Time-Prince (Zeitfurst), or Devil, and all his Dominions,
your coronation-ceremony costs such trouble, your sceptre is so difficult
to get at, or even to get eye on!"

By which last wire-drawn similitude does Teufelsdrockh mean no more than
that young men find obstacles in what we call "getting under way"?  "Not
what I Have," continues he, "but what I Do is my Kingdom.  To each is given
a certain inward Talent, a certain outward Environment of Fortune; to each,
by wisest combination of these two, a certain maximum of Capability.  But
the hardest problem were ever this first:  To find by study of yourself,
and of the ground you stand on, what your combined inward and outward
Capability specially is.  For, alas, our young soul is all budding with
Capabilities, and we see not yet which is the main and true one.  Always
too the new man is in a new time, under new conditions; his course can be
the fac-simile of no prior one, but is by its nature original.  And then
how seldom will the outward Capability fit the inward:  though talented
wonderfully enough, we are poor, unfriended, dyspeptical, bashful; nay what
is worse than all, we are foolish.  Thus, in a whole imbroglio of
Capabilities, we go stupidly groping about, to grope which is ours, and
often clutch the wrong one:  in this mad work must several years of our
small term be spent, till the purblind Youth, by practice, acquire notions
of distance, and become a seeing Man.  Nay, many so spend their whole term,
and in ever-new expectation, ever-new disappointment, shift from enterprise
to enterprise, and from side to side:  till at length, as exasperated
striplings of threescore-and-ten, they shift into their last enterprise,
that of getting buried.

"Such, since the most of us are too ophthalmic, would be the general fate;
were it not that one thing saves us:  our Hunger.  For on this ground, as
the prompt nature of Hunger is well known, must a prompt choice be made:
hence have we, with wise foresight, Indentures and Apprenticeships for our
irrational young; whereby, in due season, the vague universality of a Man
shall find himself ready-moulded into a specific Craftsman; and so
thenceforth work, with much or with little waste of Capability as it may
be; yet not with the worst waste, that of time.  Nay even in matters
spiritual, since the spiritual artist too is born blind, and does not, like
certain other creatures, receive sight in nine days, but far later,
sometimes never,—is it not well that there should be what we call
Professions, or Bread-studies (Brodzwecke), preappointed us?  Here,
circling like the gin-horse, for whom partial or total blindness is no
evil, the Bread-artist can travel contentedly round and round, still
fancying that it is forward and forward; and realize much:  for himself
victual; for the world an additional horse's power in the grand corn-mill
or hemp-mill of Economic Society.  For me too had such a leading-string
been provided; only that it proved a neck-halter, and had nigh throttled
me, till I broke it off.  Then, in the words of Ancient Pistol, did the
world generally become mine oyster, which I, by strength or cunning, was to
open, as I would and could.  Almost had I deceased (fast war ich
umgekommen), so obstinately did it continue shut."

We see here, significantly foreshadowed, the spirit of much that was to
befall our Autobiographer; the historical embodiment of which, as it
painfully takes shape in his Life, lies scattered, in dim disastrous
details, through this Bag Pisces, and those that follow.  A young man of
high talent, and high though still temper, like a young mettled colt,
"breaks off his neck-halter," and bounds forth, from his peculiar manger,
into the wide world; which, alas, he finds all rigorously fenced in.
Richest clover-fields tempt his eye; but to him they are forbidden pasture:
either pining in progressive starvation, he must stand; or, in mad
exasperation, must rush to and fro, leaping against sheer stone-walls,
which he cannot leap over, which only lacerate and lame him; till at last,
after thousand attempts and endurances, he, as if by miracle, clears his
way; not indeed into luxuriant and luxurious clover, yet into a certain
bosky wilderness where existence is still possible, and Freedom, though
waited on by Scarcity, is not without sweetness.  In a word, Teufelsdrockh
having thrown up his legal Profession, finds himself without landmark of
outward guidance; whereby his previous want of decided Belief, or inward
guidance, is frightfully aggravated.  Necessity urges him on; Time will not
stop, neither can he, a Son of Time; wild passions without solacement, wild
faculties without employment, ever vex and agitate him.  He too must enact
that stern Monodrama, No Object and no Rest; must front its successive
destinies, work through to its catastrophe, and deduce therefrom what moral
he can.

Yet let us be just to him, let us admit that his "neck-halter" sat nowise
easy on him; that he was in some degree forced to break it off.  If we look
at the young man's civic position, in this Nameless capital, as he emerges
from its Nameless University, we can discern well that it was far from
enviable.  His first Law-Examination he has come through triumphantly; and
can even boast that the Examen Rigorosum need not have frightened him:
but though he is hereby "an Auscultator of respectability," what avails
it?  There is next to no employment to be had.  Neither, for a youth
without connections, is the process of Expectation very hopeful in itself;
nor for one of his disposition much cheered from without.  " My fellow
Auscultators," he says, "were Auscultators:  they dressed, and digested,
and talked articulate words; other vitality showed they almost none.  Small
speculation in those eyes, that they did glare withal!  Sense neither for
the high nor for the deep, nor for aught human or divine, save only for the
faintest scent of coming Preferment."  In which words, indicating a total
estrangement on the part of Teufelsdrockh may there not also lurk traces of
a bitterness as from wounded vanity?  Doubtless these prosaic Auscultators
may have sniffed at him, with his strange ways; and tried to hate, and what
was much more impossible, to despise him.  Friendly communion, in any case,
there could not be:  already has the young Teufelsdrockh left the other
young geese; and swims apart, though as yet uncertain whether he himself is
cygnet or gosling.

Perhaps, too, what little employment he had was performed ill, at best
unpleasantly.  "Great practical method and expertness" he may brag of; but
is there not also great practical pride, though deep-hidden, only the
deeper-seated?  So shy a man can never have been popular.  We figure to
ourselves, how in those days he may have played strange freaks with his
independence, and so forth:  do not his own words betoken as much?  "Like a
very young person, I imagined it was with Work alone, and not also with
Folly and Sin, in myself and others, that I had been appointed to
struggle."  Be this as it may, his progress from the passive
Auscultatorship, towards any active Assessorship, is evidently of the
slowest. By degrees, those same established men, once partially inclined to
patronize him, seem to withdraw their countenance, and give him up as "a
man of genius" against which procedure he, in these Papers, loudly
protests.  "As if," says he, "the higher did not presuppose the lower; as
if he who can fly into heaven, could not also walk post if he resolved on
it!  But the world is an old woman, and mistakes any gilt farthing for a
gold coin; whereby being often cheated, she will thenceforth trust nothing
but the common copper."

How our winged sky-messenger, unaccepted as a terrestrial runner,
contrived, in the mean while, to keep himself from flying skyward without
return, is not too clear from these Documents.  Good old Gretchen seems to
have vanished from the scene, perhaps from the Earth; other Horn of Plenty,
or even of Parsimony, nowhere flows for him; so that "the prompt nature of
Hunger being well known," we are not without our anxiety.  From private
Tuition, in never so many languages and sciences, the aid derivable is
small; neither, to use his own words, "does the young Adventurer hitherto
suspect in himself any literary gift; but at best earns bread-and-water
wages, by his wide faculty of Translation.  Nevertheless," continues he,
"that I subsisted is clear, for you find me even now alive."  Which fact,
however, except upon the principle of our true-hearted, kind old Proverb,
that "there is always life for a living one," we must profess ourselves
unable to explain.

Certain Landlords' Bills, and other economic Documents, bearing the mark of
Settlement, indicate that he was not without money; but, like an
independent Hearth-holder, if not House-holder, paid his way.  Here also
occur, among many others, two little mutilated Notes, which perhaps throw
light on his condition.  The first has now no date, or writer's name, but a
huge Blot; and runs to this effect:  "The (Inkblot), tied down by
previous promise, cannot, except by best wishes, forward the Herr
Teufelsdrockh's views on the Assessorship in question; and sees himself
under the cruel necessity of forbearing, for the present, what were
otherwise his duty and joy, to assist in opening the career for a man of
genius, on whom far higher triumphs are yet waiting."  The other is on gilt
paper; and interests us like a sort of epistolary mummy now dead, yet which
once lived and beneficently worked.  We give it in the original:  "Herr
Teufelsdrockh wird von der Frau Grafinn, auf Donnerstag, zum AESTHETISCHEN
THEE schonstens eingeladen."

Thus, in answer to a cry for solid pudding, whereof there is the most
urgent need, comes, epigrammatically enough, the invitation to a wash of
quite fluid AEsthetic Tea!  How Teufelsdrockh, now at actual hand-grips
with Destiny herself, may have comported himself among these Musical and
Literary dilettanti of both sexes, like a hungry lion invited to a feast of
chickenweed, we can only conjecture.  Perhaps in expressive silence, and
abstinence:  otherwise if the lion, in such case, is to feast at all, it
cannot be on the chickenweed, but only on the chickens.  For the rest, as
this Frau Grafinn dates from the Zahdarm House, she can be no other than
the Countess and mistress of the same; whose intellectual tendencies, and
good-will to Teufelsdrockh, whether on the footing of Herr Towgood, or on
his own footing, are hereby manifest.  That some sort of relation, indeed,
continued, for a time, to connect our Autobiographer, though perhaps feebly
enough, with this noble House, we have elsewhere express evidence.
Doubtless, if he expected patronage, it was in vain; enough for him if he
here obtained occasional glimpses of the great world, from which we at one
time fancied him to have been always excluded.  "The Zahdarms," says he,
"lived in the soft, sumptuous garniture of Aristocracy; whereto Literature
and Art, attracted and attached from without, were to serve as the
handsomest fringing.  It was to the Gnadigen Frau (her Ladyship) that
this latter improvement was due:  assiduously she gathered, dexterously she
fitted on, what fringing was to be had; lace or cobweb, as the place
yielded."  Was Teufelsdrockh also a fringe, of lace or cobweb; or promising
to be such?  "With his Excellenz (the Count)," continues he, "I have more
than once had the honor to converse; chiefly on general affairs, and the
aspect of the world, which he, though now past middle life, viewed in no
unfavorable light; finding indeed, except the Outrooting of Journalism
(die auszurottende Journalistik), little to desiderate therein.  On some
points, as his Excellenz was not uncholeric, I found it more pleasant to
keep silence.  Besides, his occupation being that of Owning Land, there
might be faculties enough, which, as superfluous for such use, were little
developed in him."

That to Teufelsdrockh the aspect of the world was nowise so faultless, and
many things besides "the Outrooting of Journalism" might have seemed
improvements, we can readily conjecture.  With nothing but a barren
Auscultatorship from without, and so many mutinous thoughts and wishes from
within, his position was no easy one.  "The Universe," he says, "was as a
mighty Sphinx-riddle, which I knew so little of, yet must rede, or be
devoured.  In red streaks of unspeakable grandeur, yet also in the
blackness of darkness, was Life, to my too-unfurnished Thought, unfolding
itself.  A strange contradiction lay in me; and I as yet knew not the
solution of it; knew not that spiritual music can spring only from discords
set in harmony; that but for Evil there were no Good, as victory is only
possible by battle."

"I have heard affirmed (surely in jest)," observes he elsewhere, "by not
unphilanthropic persons, that it were a real increase of human happiness,
could all young men from the age of nineteen be covered under barrels, or
rendered otherwise invisible; and there left to follow their lawful studies
and callings, till they emerged, sadder and wiser, at the age of
twenty-five.  With which suggestion, at least as considered in the light of
a practical scheme, I need scarcely say that I nowise coincide.
Nevertheless it is plausibly urged that, as young ladies (Madchen) are,
to mankind, precisely the most delightful in those years; so young
gentlemen (Bubchen) do then attain their maximum of detestability.  Such
gawks (Gecken) are they, and foolish peacocks, and yet with such a
vulturous hunger for self-indulgence; so obstinate, obstreperous,
vain-glorious; in all senses, so froward and so forward.  No mortal's
endeavor or attainment will, in the smallest, content the as yet
unendeavoring, unattaining young gentleman; but he could make it all
infinitely better, were it worthy of him.  Life everywhere is the most
manageable matter, simple as a question in the Rule-of-Three:  multiply
your second and third term together, divide the product by the first, and
your quotient will be the answer,—which you are but an ass if you cannot
come at.  The booby has not yet found out, by any trial, that, do what one
will, there is ever a cursed fraction, oftenest a decimal repeater, and no
net integer quotient so much as to be thought of."

In which passage does not there lie an implied confession that
Teufelsdrockh himself, besides his outward obstructions, had an inward,
still greater, to contend with; namely, a certain temporary, youthful, yet
still afflictive derangement of head?  Alas, on the former side alone, his
case was hard enough.  "It continues ever true," says he, "that Saturn, or
Chronos, or what we call TIME, devours all his Children:  only by incessant
Running, by incessant Working, may you (for some threescore-and-ten years)
escape him; and you too he devours at last.  Can any Sovereign, or Holy
Alliance of Sovereigns, bid Time stand still; even in thought, shake
themselves free of Time?  Our whole terrestrial being is based on Time, and
built of Time; it is wholly a Movement, a Time-impulse; Time is the author
of it, the material of it.  Hence also our Whole Duty, which is to move, to
work,—in the right direction.  Are not our Bodies and our Souls in
continual movement, whether we will or not; in a continual Waste, requiring
a continual Repair?  Utmost satisfaction of our whole outward and inward
Wants were but satisfaction for a space of Time; thus, whatso we have done,
is done, and for us annihilated, and ever must we go and do anew.  O
Time-Spirit, how hast thou environed and imprisoned us, and sunk us so deep
in thy troublous dim Time-Element, that only in lucid moments can so much
as glimpses of our upper Azure Home be revealed to us!  Me, however, as a
Son of Time, unhappier than some others, was Time threatening to eat quite
prematurely; for, strive as I might, there was no good Running, so
obstructed was the path, so gyved were the feet."  That is to say, we
presume, speaking in the dialect of this lower world, that Teufelsdrockh's
whole duty and necessity was, like other men's, "to work,—in the right
direction," and that no work was to be had; whereby he became wretched
enough.  As was natural:  with haggard Scarcity threatening him in the
distance; and so vehement a soul languishing in restless inaction, and
forced thereby, like Sir Hudibras's sword by rust,

     "To eat into itself, for lack
     Of something else to hew and hack;"

But on the whole, that same "excellent Passivity," as it has all along
done, is here again vigorously flourishing; in which circumstance may we
not trace the beginnings of much that now characterizes our Professor and
perhaps, in faint rudiments, the origin of the Clothes-Philosophy itself?
Already the attitude he has assumed towards the World is too defensive;
not, as would have been desirable, a bold attitude of attack.  "So far
hitherto," he says, "as I had mingled with mankind, I was notable, if for
anything, for a certain stillness of manner, which, as my friends often
rebukingly declared, did but ill express the keen ardor of my feelings.  I,
in truth, regarded men with an excess both of love and of fear.  The
mystery of a Person, indeed, is ever divine to him that has a sense for the
Godlike.  Often, notwithstanding, was I blamed, and by half-strangers
hated, for my so-called Hardness (Harte), my Indifferentism towards men;
and the seemingly ironic tone I had adopted, as my favorite dialect in
conversation.  Alas, the panoply of Sarcasm was but as a buckram case,
wherein I had striven to envelop myself; that so my own poor Person might
live safe there, and in all friendliness, being no longer exasperated by
wounds.  Sarcasm I now see to be, in general, the language of the Devil;
for which reason I have long since as good as renounced it.  But how many
individuals did I, in those days, provoke into some degree of hostility
thereby!  An ironic man, with his sly stillness, and ambuscading ways, more
especially an ironic young man, from whom it is least expected, may be
viewed as a pest to society.  Have we not seen persons of weight and name
coming forward, with gentlest indifference, to tread such a one out of
sight, as an insignificancy and worm, start ceiling-high (balkenhock),
and thence fall shattered and supine, to be borne home on shutters, not
without indignation, when he proved electric and a torpedo!"

Alas, how can a man with this devilishness of temper make way for himself
in Life; where the first problem, as Teufelsdrockh too admits, is "to unite
yourself with some one, and with somewhat (sich anzuschliessen)"?
Division, not union, is written on most part of his procedure.  Let us add
too that, in no great length of time, the only important connection he had
ever succeeded in forming, his connection with the Zahdarm Family, seems to
have been paralyzed, for all practical uses, by the death of the "not
uncholeric" old Count.  This fact stands recorded, quite incidentally, in a
certain Discourse on Epitaphs, huddled into the present Bag, among so
much else; of which Essay the learning and curious penetration are more to
be approved of than the spirit.  His grand principle is, that lapidary
inscriptions, of what sort soever, should be Historical rather than
Lyrical.  "By request of that worthy Nobleman's survivors," says he, "I
undertook to compose his Epitaph; and not unmindful of my own rules,
produced the following; which however, for an alleged defect of Latinity, a
defect never yet fully visible to myself, still remains
unengraven;"—wherein, we may predict, there is more than the Latinity that
will surprise an English reader:

     PRIMUM IN ORBE DEJECIT [sub dato]; POSTREMUM [sub dato].


"For long years," writes Teufelsdrockh, "had the poor Hebrew, in this Egypt
of an Auscultatorship, painfully toiled, baking bricks without stubble,
before ever the question once struck him with entire force:  For
what?—Beym Himmel!  For Food and Warmth!  And are Food and Warmth
nowhere else, in the whole wide Universe, discoverable?—Come of it what
might, I resolved to try."

Thus then are we to see him in a new independent capacity, though perhaps
far from an improved one.  Teufelsdrockh is now a man without Profession.
Quitting the common Fleet of herring-busses and whalers, where indeed his
leeward, laggard condition was painful enough, he desperately steers off,
on a course of his own, by sextant and compass of his own.  Unhappy
Teufelsdrockh!  Though neither Fleet, nor Traffic, nor Commodores pleased
thee, still was it not a Fleet, sailing in prescribed track, for fixed
objects; above all, in combination, wherein, by mutual guidance, by all
manner of loans and borrowings, each could manifoldly aid the other?  How
wilt thou sail in unknown seas; and for thyself find that shorter Northwest
Passage to thy fair Spice-country of a Nowhere?—A solitary rover, on such
a voyage, with such nautical tactics, will meet with adventures.  Nay, as
we forthwith discover, a certain Calypso-Island detains him at the very
outset; and as it were falsifies and oversets his whole reckoning.

"If in youth," writes he once, "the Universe is majestically unveiling, and
everywhere Heaven revealing itself on Earth, nowhere to the Young Man does
this Heaven on Earth so immediately reveal itself as in the Young Maiden.
Strangely enough, in this strange life of ours, it has been so appointed.
On the whole, as I have often said, a Person (Personlichkeit) is ever
holy to us; a certain orthodox Anthropomorphism connects my Me with all
Thees in bonds of Love:  but it is in this approximation of the Like and
Unlike, that such heavenly attraction, as between Negative and Positive,
first burns out into a flame.  Is the pitifullest mortal Person, think you,
indifferent to us?  Is it not rather our heartfelt wish to be made one with
him; to unite him to us, by gratitude, by admiration, even by fear; or
failing all these, unite ourselves to him?  But how much more, in this case
of the Like-Unlike!  Here is conceded us the higher mystic possibility of
such a union, the highest in our Earth; thus, in the conducting medium of
Fantasy, flames forth that fire-development of the universal Spiritual
Electricity, which, as unfolded between man and woman, we first
emphatically denominate LOVE.

"In every well-conditioned stripling, as I conjecture, there already blooms
a certain prospective Paradise, cheered by some fairest Eve; nor, in the
stately vistas, and flowerage and foliage of that Garden, is a Tree of
Knowledge, beautiful and awful in the midst thereof, wanting.  Perhaps too
the whole is but the lovelier, if Cherubim and a Flaming Sword divide it
from all footsteps of men; and grant him, the imaginative stripling, only
the view, not the entrance.  Happy season of virtuous youth, when shame is
still an impassable celestial barrier; and the sacred air-cities of Hope
have not shrunk into the mean clay-hamlets of Reality; and man, by his
nature, is yet infinite and free!

"As for our young Forlorn," continues Teufelsdrockh evidently meaning
himself, "in his secluded way of life, and with his glowing Fantasy, the
more fiery that it burnt under cover, as in a reverberating furnace, his
feeling towards the Queens of this Earth was, and indeed is, altogether
unspeakable.  A visible Divinity dwelt in them; to our young Friend all
women were holy, were heavenly.  As yet he but saw them flitting past, in
their many-colored angel-plumage; or hovering mute and inaccessible on the
outskirts of AEsthetic Tea:  all of air they were, all Soul and Form; so
lovely, like mysterious priestesses, in whose hand was the invisible
Jacob's-ladder, whereby man might mount into very Heaven.  That he, our
poor Friend, should ever win for himself one of these Gracefuls
(Holden)—Ach Gott!  how could he hope it; should he not have died
under it?  There was a certain delirious vertigo in the thought.

"Thus was the young man, if all-sceptical of Demons and Angels such as the
vulgar had once believed in, nevertheless not unvisited by hosts of true
Sky-born, who visibly and audibly hovered round him wheresoever he went;
and they had that religious worship in his thought, though as yet it was by
their mere earthly and trivial name that he named them.  But now, if on a
soul so circumstanced, some actual Air-maiden, incorporated into
tangibility and reality, should cast any electric glance of kind eyes,
saying thereby, 'Thou too mayest love and be loved;' and so kindle
him,—good Heaven, what a volcanic, earthquake-bringing, all-consuming fire
were probably kindled!"

Such a fire, it afterwards appears, did actually burst forth, with
explosions more or less Vesuvian, in the inner man of Herr Diogenes; as
indeed how could it fail?  A nature, which, in his own figurative style, we
might say, had now not a little carbonized tinder, of Irritability; with so
much nitre of latent Passion, and sulphurous Humor enough; the whole lying
in such hot neighborhood, close by "a reverberating furnace of Fantasy:"
have we not here the components of driest Gunpowder, ready, on occasion of
the smallest spark, to blaze up?  Neither, in this our Life-element, are
sparks anywhere wanting.  Without doubt, some Angel, whereof so many
hovered round, would one day, leaving "the outskirts of AEsthetic Tea,"
flit higher; and, by electric Promethean glance, kindle no despicable
firework.  Happy, if it indeed proved a Firework, and flamed off
rocket-wise, in successive beautiful bursts of splendor, each growing
naturally from the other, through the several stages of a happy Youthful
Love; till the whole were safely burnt out; and the young soul relieved
with little damage!  Happy, if it did not rather prove a Conflagration and
mad Explosion; painfully lacerating the heart itself; nay perhaps bursting
the heart in pieces (which were Death); or at best, bursting the thin walls
of your "reverberating furnace," so that it rage thenceforth all unchecked
among the contiguous combustibles (which were Madness):  till of the so
fair and manifold internal world of our Diogenes, there remained Nothing,
or only the "crater of an extinct volcano"!

From multifarious Documents in this Bag Capricornus, and in the adjacent
ones on both sides thereof, it becomes manifest that our philosopher, as
stoical and cynical as he now looks, was heartily and even frantically in
Love:  here therefore may our old doubts whether his heart were of stone or
of flesh give way.  He loved once; not wisely but too well.  And once only:
for as your Congreve needs a new case or wrappage for every new rocket, so
each human heart can properly exhibit but one Love, if even one; the "First
Love which is infinite" can be followed by no second like unto it.  In more
recent years, accordingly, the Editor of these Sheets was led to regard
Teufelsdrockh as a man not only who would never wed, but who would never
even flirt; whom the grand-climacteric itself, and St. Martin's Summer of
incipient Dotage, would crown with no new myrtle-garland.  To the
Professor, women are henceforth Pieces of Art; of Celestial Art, indeed,
which celestial pieces he glories to survey in galleries, but has lost
thought of purchasing.

Psychological readers are not without curiosity to see how Teufelsdrockh in
this for him unexampled predicament, demeans himself; with what specialties
of successive configuration, splendor and color, his Firework blazes off.
Small, as usual, is the satisfaction that such can meet with here.  From
amid these confused masses of Eulogy and Elegy, with their mad Petrarchan
and Werterean ware lying madly scattered among all sorts of quite
extraneous matter, not so much as the fair one's name can be deciphered.
For, without doubt, the title Blumine, whereby she is here designated,
and which means simply Goddess of Flowers, must be fictitious.  Was her
real name Flora, then?  But what was her surname, or had she none?  Of what
station in Life was she; of what parentage, fortune, aspect?  Specially, by
what Pre-established Harmony of occurrences did the Lover and the Loved
meet one another in so wide a world; how did they behave in such meeting?
To all which questions, not unessential in a Biographic work, mere
Conjecture must for most part return answer.  "It was appointed," says our
Philosopher, "that the high celestial orbit of Blumine should intersect the
low sublunary one of our Forlorn; that he, looking in her empyrean eyes,
should fancy the upper Sphere of Light was come down into this nether
sphere of Shadows; and finding himself mistaken, make noise enough."

We seem to gather that she was young, hazel-eyed, beautiful, and some one's
Cousin; high-born, and of high spirit; but unhappily dependent and
insolvent; living, perhaps, on the not too gracious bounty of moneyed
relatives.  But how came "the Wanderer" into her circle?  Was it by the
humid vehicle of AEsthetic Tea, or by the arid one of mere Business?  Was
it on the hand of Herr Towgood; or of the Gnadige Frau, who, as an
ornamental Artist, might sometimes like to promote flirtation, especially
for young cynical Nondescripts?  To all appearance, it was chiefly by
Accident, and the grace of Nature.

"Thou fair Waldschloss," writes our Autobiographer, "what stranger ever saw
thee, were it even an absolved Auscultator, officially bearing in his
pocket the last Relatio ex Actis he would ever write, but must have
paused to wonder!  Noble Mansion!  There stoodest thou, in deep Mountain
Amphitheatre, on umbrageous lawns, in thy serene solitude; stately,
massive, all of granite; glittering in the western sunbeams, like a palace
of El Dorado, overlaid with precious metal.  Beautiful rose up, in wavy
curvature, the slope of thy guardian Hills; of the greenest was their
sward, embossed with its dark-brown frets of crag, or spotted by some
spreading solitary Tree and its shadow.  To the unconscious Wayfarer thou
wert also as an Ammon's Temple, in the Libyan Waste; where, for joy and
woe, the tablet of his Destiny lay written.  Well might he pause and gaze;
in that glance of his were prophecy and nameless forebodings."

But now let us conjecture that the so presentient Auscultator has handed in
his Relatio ex Actis; been invited to a glass of Rhine-wine; and so,
instead of returning dispirited and athirst to his dusty Town-home, is
ushered into the Garden-house, where sit the choicest party of dames and
cavaliers:  if not engaged in AEsthetic Tea, yet in trustful evening
conversation, and perhaps Musical Coffee, for we hear of "harps and pure
voices making the stillness live."  Scarcely, it would seem, is the
Garden-house inferior in respectability to the noble Mansion itself.
"Embowered amid rich foliage, rose-clusters, and the hues and odors of
thousand flowers, here sat that brave company; in front, from the
wide-opened doors, fair outlook over blossom and bush, over grove and
velvet green, stretching, undulating onwards to the remote Mountain peaks:
so bright, so mild, and everywhere the melody of birds and happy creatures:
it was all as if man had stolen a shelter from the SUIT in the
bosom-vesture of Summer herself.  How came it that the Wanderer advanced
thither with such forecasting heart (ahndungsvoll), by the side of his
gay host?  Did he feel that to these soft influences his hard bosom ought
to be shut; that here, once more, Fate had it in view to try him; to mock
him, and see whether there were Humor in him?

"Next moment he finds himself presented to the party; and especially by
name to—Blumine!  Peculiar among all dames and damosels glanced Blumine,
there in her modesty, like a star among earthly lights.  Noblest maiden!
whom he bent to, in body and in soul; yet scarcely dared look at, for the
presence filled him with painful yet sweetest embarrassment.

"Blumine's was a name well known to him; far and wide was the fair one
heard of, for her gifts, her graces, her caprices:  from all which vague
colorings of Rumor, from the censures no less than from the praises, had
our friend painted for himself a certain imperious Queen of Hearts, and
blooming warm Earth-angel, much more enchanting than your mere white
Heaven-angels of women, in whose placid veins circulates too little
naphtha-fire.  Herself also he had seen in public places; that light yet so
stately form; those dark tresses, shading a face where smiles and sunlight
played over earnest deeps:  but all this he had seen only as a magic
vision, for him inaccessible, almost without reality.  Her sphere was too
far from his; how should she ever think of him; O Heaven! how should they
so much as once meet together?  And now that Rose-goddess sits in the same
circle with him; the light of her eyes has smiled on him; if he speak,
she will hear it!  Nay, who knows, since the heavenly Sun looks into lowest
valleys, but Blumine herself might have aforetime noted the so unnotable;
perhaps, from his very gainsayers, as he had from hers, gathered wonder,
gathered favor for him?  Was the attraction, the agitation mutual, then;
pole and pole trembling towards contact, when once brought into
neighborhood?  Say rather, heart swelling in presence of the Queen of
Hearts; like the Sea swelling when once near its Moon!  With the Wanderer
it was even so:  as in heavenward gravitation, suddenly as at the touch of
a Seraph's wand, his whole soul is roused from its deepest recesses; and
all that was painful and that was blissful there, dim images, vague
feelings of a whole Past and a whole Future, are heaving in unquiet eddies
within him.

"Often, in far less agitating scenes, had our still Friend shrunk forcibly
together; and shrouded up his tremors and flutterings, of what sort soever,
in a safe cover of Silence, and perhaps of seeming Stolidity.  How was it,
then, that here, when trembling to the core of his heart, he did not sink
into swoons, but rose into strength, into fearlessness and clearness?  It
was his guiding Genius (Damon) that inspired him; he must go forth and
meet his Destiny.  Show thyself now, whispered it, or be forever hid.  Thus
sometimes it is even when your anxiety becomes transcendental, that the
soul first feels herself able to transcend it; that she rises above it, in
fiery victory; and borne on new-found wings of victory, moves so calmly,
even because so rapidly, so irresistibly.  Always must the Wanderer
remember, with a certain satisfaction and surprise, how in this case he sat
not silent but struck adroitly into the stream of conversation; which
thenceforth, to speak with an apparent not a real vanity, he may say that
he continued to lead.  Surely, in those hours, a certain inspiration was
imparted him, such inspiration as is still possible in our late era.  The
self-secluded unfolds himself in noble thoughts, in free, glowing words;
his soul is as one sea of light, the peculiar home of Truth and Intellect;
wherein also Fantasy bodies forth form after form, radiant with all
prismatic hues."

It appears, in this otherwise so happy meeting, there talked one
"Philisitine;" who even now, to the general weariness, was dominantly
pouring forth Philistinism (Philistriositaten.); little witting what hero
was here entering to demolish him!  We omit the series of Socratic, or
rather Diogenic utterances, not unhappy in their way, whereby the monster,
"persuaded into silence," seems soon after to have withdrawn 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 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!

He says that, in Town, they met again:  "day after day, like his heart's
sun, the blooming Blumine shone on him.  Ah! a little while ago, and he was
yet in all darkness:  him what Graceful (Holde) would ever love?
Disbelieving all things, the poor youth had never learned to believe in
himself.  Withdrawn, in proud timidity, within his own fastnesses; solitary
from men, yet baited by night-spectres enough, he saw himself, with a sad
indignation, constrained to renounce the fairest hopes of existence.  And
now, O now!  'She looks on thee,' cried he:  'she the fairest, noblest; do
not her dark eyes tell thee, thou art not despised?  The
Heaven's-Messenger!  All Heaven's blessings be hers!'  Thus did soft
melodies flow through his heart; tones of an infinite gratitude; sweetest
intimations that he also was a man, that for him also unutterable joys had
been provided.

"In free speech, earnest or gay, amid lambent glances, laughter, tears, and
often with the inarticulate mystic speech of Music:  such was the element
they now lived in; in such a many-tinted, radiant Aurora, and by this
fairest of Orient Light-bringers must our Friend be blandished, and the new
Apocalypse of Nature enrolled to him.  Fairest Blumine!  And, even as a
Star, all Fire and humid Softness, a very Light-ray incarnate!  Was there
so much as a fault, a 'caprice,' he could have dispensed with?  Was she not
to him in very deed a 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
elasticity, or accident of fire, it has exploded?  A hapless air-navigator,
plunging, amid torn parachutes, sand-bags, and confused wreck, fast enough
into the jaws of the Devil!  Suffice it to know that Teufelsdrockh rose
into the highest regions of the Empyrean, by a natural parabolic track, and
returned thence in a quick perpendicular one.  For the rest, let any
feeling reader, who has been unhappy enough to do the like, paint it out
for himself:  considering only that if he, for his perhaps comparatively
insignificant mistress, underwent such agonies and frenzies, what must
Teufelsdrockh's have been, with a fire-heart, and for a nonpareil Blumine!
We glance merely at the final scene:—

"One morning, he found his Morning-star all dimmed and dusky-red; the fair
creature was silent, absent, she seemed to have been weeping.  Alas, no
longer a Morning-star, but a troublous skyey Portent, announcing that the
Doomsday had dawned!  She said, in a tremulous voice, They were to meet no
more."  The thunder-struck Air-sailor is not wanting to himself in this
dread hour:  but what avails it?  We omit the passionate expostulations,
entreaties, indignations, since all was vain, and not even an explanation
was conceded him; and hasten to the catastrophe.  "'Farewell, then, Madam!'
said he, not without sternness, for his stung pride helped him.  She put
her hand in his, she looked in his face, tears started to her eyes; in wild
audacity he clasped her to his bosom; their lips were joined, their two
souls, like two dew-drops, rushed into one,—for the first time and for the
last!"  Thus was Teufelsdrockh made immortal by a kiss.  And then?  Why,
then—"thick curtains of Night rushed over his soul, as rose the
immeasurable Crash of Doom; and through the ruins as of a shivered Universe
was he falling, falling, towards the Abyss."


We have long felt that, with a man like our Professor, matters must often
be expected to take a course of their own; that in so multiplex, intricate
a nature, there might be channels, both for admitting and emitting, such as
the Psychologist had seldom noted; in short, that on no grand occasion and
convulsion, neither in the joy-storm nor in the woe-storm could you predict
his demeanor.

To our less philosophical readers, for example, it is now clear that the so
passionate Teufelsdrockh precipitated through "a shivered Universe" in this
extraordinary way, has only one of three things which he can next do:
Establish himself in Bedlam; begin writing Satanic Poetry; or blow out his
brains.  In the progress towards any of which consummations, do not such
readers anticipate extravagance enough; breast-beating, brow-beating
(against walls), lion-bellowings of blasphemy and the like, stampings,
smitings, breakages of furniture, if not arson itself?

Nowise so does Teufelsdrockh deport him.  He quietly lifts his Pilgerstab
(Pilgrim-staff), "old business being soon wound up;" and begins a
perambulation and circumambulation of the terraqueous Globe!  Curious it
is, indeed, how with such vivacity of conception, such intensity of
feeling, above all, with these unconscionable habits of Exaggeration in
speech, he combines that wonderful stillness of his, that stoicism in
external procedure.  Thus, if his sudden bereavement, in this matter of the
Flower-goddess, is talked of as a real Doomsday and Dissolution of Nature,
in which light doubtless it partly appeared to himself, his own nature is
nowise dissolved thereby; but rather is compressed closer.  For once, as we
might say, a Blumine by magic appliances has unlocked that shut heart of
his, and its hidden things rush out tumultuous, boundless, like genii
enfranchised from their glass vial:  but no sooner are your magic
appliances withdrawn, than the strange casket of a heart springs to again;
and perhaps there is now no key extant that will open it; for a
Teufelsdrockh as we remarked, will not love a second time.  Singular
Diogenes!  No sooner has that heart-rending occurrence fairly taken place,
than he affects to regard it as a thing natural, of which there is nothing
more to be said.  "One highest hope, seemingly legible 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 Teufelsdrockh'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 toy-box, 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 Lifebreath:  for
always, of its own unity, the soul gives unity to whatsoever it looks on
with love; thus does the little Dwelling-place of men, in itself a
congeries of houses and huts, become for us an individual, almost a person.
But what thousand other thoughts unite thereto, if the place has to
ourselves been the arena of joyous or mournful experiences; if perhaps the
cradle we were rocked in still stands there, if our Loving ones still dwell
there, if our Buried ones there slumber!"  Does Teufelsdrockh as the
wounded eagle is said to make for its own eyrie, and indeed military
deserters, and all hunted outcast creatures, turn as if by instinct in the
direction of their birthland,—fly first, in this extremity, towards his
native Entepfuhl; but reflecting that there no help awaits him, take only
one wistful look from the distance, and then wend elsewhither?

Little happier seems to be his next flight:  into the wilds of Nature; as
if in her mother-bosom he would seek healing.  So at least we incline to
interpret the following Notice, separated from the former by some
considerable space, wherein, however, is nothing noteworthy:—

"Mountains were not new to him; but rarely are Mountains seen in such
combined majesty and grace as here.  The rocks are of that sort called
Primitive by the mineralogists, which always arrange themselves in masses
of a rugged, gigantic character; which ruggedness, however, is here
tempered by a singular airiness of form, and softness of environment:  in a
climate favorable to vegetation, the gray cliff, itself covered with
lichens, shoots up through a garment of foliage or verdure; and white,
bright cottages, tree-shaded, cluster round the everlasting granite.  In
fine vicissitude, Beauty alternates with Grandeur:  you ride through stony
hollows, along strait passes, traversed by torrents, overhung by high walls
of rock; now winding amid broken shaggy chasms, and huge fragments; now
suddenly emerging into some emerald valley, where the streamlet collects
itself into a Lake, and man has again found a fair dwelling, and it seems
as if Peace had established herself in the bosom of Strength.

"To Peace, however, in this vortex of existence, can the Son of Time not
pretend:  still less if some Spectre haunt him from the Past; and the
Future is wholly a Stygian Darkness, spectre-bearing.  Reasonably might the
Wanderer exclaim to himself:  Are not the gates of this world's happiness
inexorably shut against thee; hast thou a hope that is not mad?
Nevertheless, one may still murmur audibly, or in the original Greek if
that suit thee better:  'Whoso can look on Death will start at no shadows.'

"From such meditations is the Wanderer's attention called outwards; for now
the Valley closes in abruptly, intersected by a huge mountain mass, the
stony water-worn ascent of which is not to be accomplished on horseback.
Arrived aloft, he finds himself again lifted into the evening sunset light;
and cannot but pause, and gaze round him, some moments there.  An upland
irregular expanse of wold, where valleys in complex branchings are suddenly
or slowly arranging their descent towards every quarter of the sky.  The
mountain-ranges are beneath your feet, and folded together:  only the
loftier summits look down here and there as on a second plain; lakes also
lie clear and earnest in their solitude.  No trace of man now visible;
unless indeed it were he who fashioned that little visible link of Highway,
here, as would seem, scaling the inaccessible, to unite Province with
Province.  But sunwards, lo you! how it towers sheer up, a world of
Mountains, the diadem and centre of the mountain region!  A hundred and a
hundred savage peaks, in the last light of Day; all glowing, of gold and
amethyst, like giant spirits of the wilderness; there in their silence, in
their solitude, even as on the night when Noah's Deluge first dried!
Beautiful, nay solemn, was the sudden aspect to our Wanderer.  He gazed
over those stupendous masses with wonder, almost with longing desire; never
till this hour had he known Nature, that she was One, that she was his
Mother and divine.  And as the ruddy glow was fading into clearness in the
sky, and the Sun had now departed, a murmur of Eternity and Immensity, of
Death and of Life, stole through his soul; and he felt as if Death and Life
were one, as if the Earth were not dead, as if the Spirit of the Earth had
its throne in that splendor, and his own spirit were therewith holding

"The spell was broken by a sound of carriage-wheels.  Emerging from the
hidden Northward, to sink soon into the hidden Southward, came a gay
Barouche-and-four:  it was open; servants and postilions wore wedding
favors:  that happy pair, then, had found each other, it was their marriage
evening!  Few moments brought them near:  Du Himmel!  It was Herr Towgood
and—Blumine!  With slight unrecognizing salutation they passed me; plunged
down amid the neighboring thickets, onwards, to Heaven, and to England; and
I, in my friend Richter's words, I remained alone, behind them, with the

Were it not cruel in these circumstances, here might be the place to insert
an observation, gleaned long ago from the great Clothes-Volume, where it
stands with quite other intent:  "Some time before Small-pox was
extirpated," says the Professor, "there came a new malady of the spiritual
sort on Europe:  I mean the epidemic, now endemical, of View-hunting.
Poets of old date, being privileged with Senses, had also enjoyed external
Nature; but chiefly as we enjoy the crystal cup which holds good or bad
liquor for us; that is to say, in silence, or with slight incidental
commentary:  never, as I compute, till after the Sorrows of Werter, was
there man found who would say:  Come let us make a Description!  Having
drunk the liquor, come let us eat the glass!  Of which endemic the Jenner
is unhappily still to seek."  Too true!

We reckon it more important to remark that the Professor's Wanderings, so
far as his stoical and cynical envelopment admits us to clear insight, here
first take their permanent character, fatuous or not.  That Basilisk-glance
of the Barouche-and-four seems to have withered up what little remnant of a
purpose may have still lurked in him:  Life has become wholly a dark
labyrinth; wherein, through long years, our Friend, flying from spectres,
has to stumble about at random, and naturally with more haste than

Foolish were it in us to attempt following him, even from afar, in this
extraordinary world-pilgrimage of his; the simplest record of which, were
clear record possible, would fill volumes.  Hopeless is the obscurity,
unspeakable the confusion.  He glides from country to country, from
condition to condition; vanishing and reappearing, no man can calculate how
or where.  Through all quarters of the world he wanders, and apparently
through all circles of society.  If in any scene, perhaps difficult to fix
geographically, he settles for a time, and forms connections, be sure he
will snap them abruptly asunder.  Let him sink out of sight as Private
Scholar (Privatsirender), living by the grace of God in some European
capital, you may next find him as Hadjee in the neighborhood of Mecca.  It
is an inexplicable Phantasmagoria, capricious, quick-changing; as if our
Traveller, instead of limbs and highways, had transported himself by some
wishing-carpet, or Fortunatus' Hat.  The whole, too, imparted
emblematically, in dim multifarious tokens (as that collection of
Street-Advertisements); with only some touch of direct historical notice
sparingly interspersed:  little light-islets in the world of haze!  So
that, from this point, the Professor is more of an enigma than ever.  In
figurative language, we might say he becomes, not indeed a spirit, yet
spiritualized, vaporized.  Fact unparalleled in Biography:  The river of
his History, which we have traced from its tiniest fountains, and hoped to
see flow onward, with increasing current, into the ocean, here dashes
itself over that terrific Lover's Leap; and, as a mad-foaming cataract,
flies wholly into tumultuous clouds of spray!  Low down it indeed collects
again into pools and plashes; yet only at a great distance, and with
difficulty, if at all, into a general stream.  To cast a glance into
certain of those pools and plashes, and trace whither they run, must, for a
chapter or two, form the limit of our endeavor.

For which end doubtless those direct historical Notices, where they can be
met with, are the best. Nevertheless, of this sort too there occurs much,
which, with our present light, it were questionable to emit.  Teufelsdrockh
vibrating everywhere between the highest and the lowest levels, comes into
contact with public History itself.  For example, those conversations and
relations with illustrious Persons, as Sultan Mahmoud, the Emperor
Napoleon, and others, are they not as yet rather of a diplomatic character
than of a biographic?  The Editor, appreciating the sacredness of crowned
heads, nay perhaps suspecting the possible trickeries of a
Clothes-Philosopher, will eschew this province for the present; a new time
may bring new insight and a different duty.

If we ask now, not indeed with what ulterior Purpose, for there was none,
yet with what immediate outlooks; at all events, in what mood of mind, the
Professor undertook and prosecuted this world-pilgrimage,—the answer is
more distinct than favorable.  "A nameless Unrest," says he, "urged me
forward; to which the outward motion was some momentary lying solace.
Whither should I go?  My Loadstars were blotted out; in that canopy of grim
fire shone no star.  Yet forward must I; the ground burnt under me; there
was no rest for the sole of my foot.  I was alone, alone!  Ever too the
strong inward longing shaped Phantasms for itself:  towards these, one
after the other, must I fruitlessly wander.  A feeling I had, that for my
fever-thirst there was and must be somewhere a healing Fountain.  To many
fondly imagined Fountains, the Saints' Wells of these days, did I pilgrim;
to great Men, to great Cities, to great Events:  but found there no
healing.  In strange countries, as in the well-known; in savage deserts, as
in the press of corrupt civilization, it was ever the same:  how could your
Wanderer escape from—his own Shadow?  Nevertheless still Forward!  I
felt as if in great haste; to do I saw not what.  From the depths of my own
heart, it called to me, Forwards!  The winds and the streams, and all
Nature sounded to me, Forwards!  Ach Gott, I was even, once for all, a
Son of Time."

From which is it not clear that the internal Satanic School was still
active enough?  He says elsewhere:  "The Enchiridion of Epictetus I had
ever with me, often as my sole rational companion; and regret to mention
that the nourishment it yielded was trifling."  Thou foolish Teufelsdrockh
How could it else?  Hadst thou not Greek enough to understand thus much:
The end of Man is an Action, and not a Thought, though it were the

"How I lived?" writes he once:  "Friend, hast thou considered the 'rugged
all-nourishing Earth,' as Sophocles well names her; how she feeds the
sparrow on the house-top, much more her darling, man?  While thou stirrest
and livest, thou hast a probability of victual.  My breakfast of tea has
been cooked by a Tartar woman, with water of the Amur, who wiped her
earthen kettle with a horse-tail.  I have roasted wild eggs in the sand of
Sahara; I have awakened in Paris Estrapades and Vienna Malzleins, with
no prospect of breakfast beyond elemental liquid.  That I had my Living to
seek saved me from Dying,—by suicide.  In our busy Europe, is there not an
everlasting demand for Intellect, in the chemical, mechanical, political,
religious, educational, commercial departments?  In Pagan countries, cannot
one write Fetishes?  Living!  Little knowest thou what alchemy is in an
inventive Soul; how, as with its little finger, it can create provision
enough for the body (of a Philosopher); and then, as with both hands,
create quite other than provision; namely, spectres to torment itself

Poor Teufelsdrockh!  Flying with Hunger always parallel to him; and a whole
Infernal Chase in his rear; so that the countenance of Hunger is
comparatively a friend's!  Thus must he, in the temper of ancient Cain, or
of the modern Wandering Jew,—save only that he feels himself not guilty
and but suffering the pains of guilt,—wend to and fro with aimless speed.
Thus must he, over the whole surface of the Earth (by footprints), write
his Sorrows of Teufelsdrockh; even as the great Goethe, in passionate
words, had to write his Sorrows of Werter, before the spirit freed
herself, and he could become a Man.  Vain truly is the hope of your
swiftest Runner to escape "from his own Shadow"!  Nevertheless, in these
sick days, when the Born of Heaven first descries himself (about the age of
twenty) in a world such as ours, richer than usual in two things, in Truths
grown obsolete, and Trades grown obsolete,—what can the fool think but
that it is all a Den of Lies, wherein whoso will not speak Lies and act
Lies, must stand idle and despair?  Whereby it happens that, for your
nobler minds, the publishing of some such Work of Art, in one or the other
dialect, becomes almost a necessity.  For what is it properly but an
Altercation with the Devil, before you begin honestly Fighting him?  Your
Byron publishes his Sorrows of Lord George, in verse and in prose, and
copiously otherwise:  your Bonaparte represents his Sorrows of Napoleon
Opera, in an all-too stupendous style; with music of cannon-volleys, and
murder-shrieks of a world; his stage-lights are the fires of Conflagration;
his rhyme and recitative are the tramp of embattled Hosts and the sound of
falling Cities.—Happier is he who, like our Clothes-Philosopher, can write
such matter, since it must be written, on the insensible Earth, with his
shoe-soles only; and also survive the writing thereof!


Under the strange nebulous envelopment, wherein our Professor has now
shrouded himself, no doubt but his spiritual nature is nevertheless
progressive, and growing:  for how can the "Son of Time," in any case,
stand still?  We behold him, through those dim years, in a state of crisis,
of transition:  his mad Pilgrimings, and general solution into aimless
Discontinuity, what is all this but a mad Fermentation; wherefrom the
fiercer it is, the clearer product will one day evolve itself?

Such transitions are ever full of pain:  thus the Eagle when he moults is
sickly; and, to attain his new beak, must harshly dash off the old one upon
rocks.  What Stoicism soever our Wanderer, in his individual acts and
motions, may affect, it is clear that there is a hot fever of anarchy and
misery raging within; coruscations of which flash out:  as, indeed, how
could there be other?  Have we not seen him disappointed, bemocked of
Destiny, through long years?  All that the young heart might desire and
pray for has been denied; nay, as in the last worst instance, offered and
then snatched away.  Ever an "excellent Passivity;" but of useful,
reasonable Activity, essential to the former as Food to Hunger, nothing
granted:  till at length, in this wild Pilgrimage, he must forcibly seize
for himself an Activity, though useless, unreasonable.  Alas, his cup of
bitterness, which had been filling drop by drop, ever since that first
"ruddy morning" in the Hinterschlag Gymnasium, was at the very lip; and
then with that poison-drop, of the Towgood-and-Blumine business, it runs
over, and even hisses over in a deluge of foam.

He himself says once, with more justness than originality:  "Men is,
properly speaking, based upon Hope, he has no other possession but Hope;
this world of his is emphatically the Place of Hope."  What, then, was our
Professor's possession?  We see him, for the present, quite shut out from
Hope; looking not into the golden orient, but vaguely all round into a dim
copper firmament, pregnant with earthquake and tornado.

Alas, shut out from Hope, in a deeper sense than we yet dream of!  For, as
he wanders wearisomely through this world, he has now lost all tidings of
another and higher.  Full of religion, or at least of religiosity, as our
Friend has since exhibited himself, he hides not that, in those days, he
was wholly irreligious:  "Doubt had darkened into Unbelief," says he;
"shade after shade goes grimly over your soul, till you have the fixed,
starless, Tartarean black."  To such readers as have reflected, what can be
called reflecting, on man's life, and happily discovered, in contradiction
to much Profit-and-Loss Philosophy, speculative and practical, that Soul is
not synonymous with Stomach; who understand, therefore, in our Friend's
words, "that, for man's well-being, Faith is properly the one thing
needful; how, with it, Martyrs, otherwise weak, can cheerfully endure the
shame and the cross; and without it, Worldlings puke up their sick
existence, by suicide, in the midst of luxury:"  to such it will be clear
that, for a pure moral nature, the loss of his religious Belief was the
loss of everything.  Unhappy young man!  All wounds, the crush of
long-continued Destitution, the stab of false Friendship and of false Love,
all wounds in thy so genial heart, would have healed again, had not its
life-warmth been withdrawn.  Well might he exclaim, in his wild way:  "Is
there no God, then; but at best an absentee God, sitting idle, ever since
the first Sabbath, at the outside of his Universe, and seeing it go?  Has
the word Duty no meaning; is what we call Duty no divine Messenger and
Guide, but a false earthly Phantasm, made up of Desire and Fear, of
emanations from the Gallows and from Doctor Graham's Celestial-Bed?
Happiness of an approving Conscience!  Did not Paul of Tarsus, whom
admiring men have since named Saint, feel that he was 'the chief of
sinners;' and Nero of Rome, jocund in spirit (wohlgemuth), spend much of
his time in fiddling?  Foolish Wordmonger and Motive-grinder, who in thy
Logic-mill hast an earthly mechanism for the Godlike itself, and wouldst
fain grind me out Virtue from the husks of Pleasure,—I tell thee, Nay!  To
the unregenerate Prometheus Vinctus of a man, it is ever the bitterest
aggravation of his wretchedness that he is conscious of Virtue, that he
feels himself the victim not of suffering only, but of injustice.  What
then?  Is the heroic inspiration we name Virtue but some Passion; some
bubble of the blood, bubbling in the direction others profit by?  I know
not:  only this I know, If what thou namest Happiness be our true aim, then
are we all astray.  With Stupidity and sound Digestion man may front much.
But what, in these dull unimaginative days, are the terrors of Conscience
to the diseases of the Liver!  Not on Morality, but on Cookery, let us
build our stronghold:  there brandishing our frying-pan, as censer, let us
offer sweet incense to the Devil, and live at ease on the fat things he has
provided for his Elect!"

Thus has the bewildered Wanderer to stand, as so many have done, shouting
question after question into the Sibyl-cave of Destiny, and receive no
Answer but an Echo.  It is all a grim Desert, this once-fair world of his;
wherein is heard only the howling of wild beasts, or the shrieks of
despairing, hate-filled men; and no Pillar of Cloud by day, and no Pillar
of Fire by night, any longer guides the Pilgrim.  To such length has the
spirit of Inquiry carried him.  "But what boots it (was thut's)?" cries
he:  "it is but the common lot in this era.  Not having come to spiritual
majority prior to the Siecle de Louis Quinze, and not being born purely a
Loghead (Dummkopf ), thou hadst no other outlook.  The whole world is,
like thee, sold to Unbelief; their old Temples of the Godhead, which for
long have not been rain-proof, crumble down; and men ask now:  Where is the
Godhead; our eyes never saw him?"

Pitiful enough were it, for all these wild utterances, to call our Diogenes
wicked.  Unprofitable servants as we all are, perhaps at no era of his life
was he more decisively the Servant of Goodness, the Servant of God, than
even now when doubting God's existence.  "One circumstance I note," says
he:  "after all the nameless woe that Inquiry, which for me, what it is not
always, was genuine Love of Truth, had wrought me!  I nevertheless still
loved Truth, and would bate no jot of my allegiance to her.  'Truth!' I
cried, 'though the Heavens crush me for following her:  no Falsehood!
though a whole celestial Lubberland were the price of Apostasy.'  In
conduct it was the same.  Had a divine Messenger from the clouds, or
miraculous Handwriting on the wall, convincingly proclaimed to me This
thou shalt do, with what passionate readiness, as I often thought, would I
have done it, had it been leaping into the infernal Fire.  Thus, in spite
of all Motive-grinders, and Mechanical Profit-and-Loss Philosophies, with
the sick ophthalmia and hallucination they had brought on, was the Infinite
nature of Duty still dimly present to me:  living without God in the world,
of God's light I was not utterly bereft; if my as yet sealed eyes, with
their unspeakable longing, could nowhere see Him, nevertheless in my heart
He was present, and His heaven-written Law still stood legible and sacred

Meanwhile, under all these tribulations, and temporal and spiritual
destitutions, what must the Wanderer, in his silent soul, have endured!
"The painfullest feeling," writes he, "is that of your own Feebleness
(Unkraft); ever, as the English Milton says, to be weak is the true
misery.  And yet of your Strength there is and can be no clear feeling,
save by what you have prospered in, by what you have done.  Between vague
wavering Capability and fixed indubitable Performance, what a difference!
A certain inarticulate Self-consciousness dwells dimly in us; which only
our Works can render articulate and decisively discernible.  Our Works are
the mirror wherein the spirit first sees its natural lineaments.  Hence,
too, the folly of that impossible Precept, Know thyself; till it be
translated into this partially possible one, Know what thou canst work

"But for me, so strangely unprosperous had I been, the net-result of my
Workings amounted as yet simply to—Nothing.  How then could I believe in
my Strength, when there was as yet no mirror to see it in?  Ever did this
agitating, yet, as I now perceive, quite frivolous question, remain to me
insoluble:  Hast thou a certain Faculty, a certain Worth, such even as the
most have not; or art thou the completest Dullard of these modern times?
Alas, the fearful Unbelief is unbelief in yourself; and how could I
believe?  Had not my first, last Faith in myself, when even to me the
Heavens seemed laid open, and I dared to love, been all too cruelly belied?
The speculative Mystery of Life grew ever more mysterious to me:  neither
in the practical Mystery had I made the slightest progress, but been
everywhere buffeted, foiled, and contemptuously cast out.  A feeble unit in
the middle of a threatening Infinitude, I seemed to have nothing given me
but eyes, whereby to discern my own wretchedness.  Invisible yet
impenetrable walls, as of Enchantment, divided me from all living:  was
there, in the wide world, any true bosom I could press trustfully to mine?
O Heaven, No, there was none!  I kept a lock upon my lips:  why should I
speak much with that shifting variety of so-called Friends, in whose
withered, vain and too-hungry souls Friendship was but an incredible
tradition?  In such cases, your resource is to talk little, and that little
mostly from the Newspapers.  Now when I look back, it was a strange
isolation I then lived in.  The men and women around me, even speaking with
me, were but Figures; I had, practically, forgotten that they were alive,
that they were not merely automatic.  In the midst of their crowded streets
and assemblages, I walked solitary; and (except as it was my own heart, not
another's, that I kept devouring) savage also, as the tiger in his jungle.
Some comfort it would have been, could I, like a Faust, have fancied myself
tempted and tormented of the Devil; for a Hell, as I imagine, without Life,
though only diabolic Life, were more frightful:  but in our age of
Down-pulling and Disbelief, the very Devil has been pulled down, you cannot
so much as believe in a Devil.  To me the Universe was all void of Life, of
Purpose, of Volition, even of Hostility:  it was one huge, dead,
immeasurable Steam-engine, rolling on, in its dead indifference, to grind
me limb from limb.  Oh, the vast, gloomy, solitary Golgotha, and Mill of
Death!  Why was the Living banished thither companionless, conscious?  Why,
if there is no Devil; nay, unless the Devil is your God?"

A prey incessantly to such corrosions, might not, moreover, as the worst
aggravation to them, the iron constitution even of a Teufelsdrockh threaten
to fail?  We conjecture that he has known sickness; and, in spite of his
locomotive habits, perhaps sickness of the chronic sort.  Hear this, for
example:  "How beautiful to die of broken-heart, on Paper!  Quite another
thing in practice; every window of your Feeling, even of your Intellect, as
it were, begrimed and mud-bespattered, so that no pure ray can enter; a
whole Drug-shop in your inwards; the fordone soul drowning slowly in
quagmires of Disgust!"

Putting all which external and internal miseries together, may we not find
in the following sentences, quite in our Professor's still vein,
significance enough?  "From Suicide a certain after-shine (Nachschein) of
Christianity withheld me:  perhaps also a certain indolence of character;
for, was not that a remedy I had at any time within reach?  Often, however,
was there a question present to me:  Should some one now, at the turning of
that corner, blow thee suddenly out of Space, into the other World, or
other No-world, by pistol-shot,—how were it?  On which ground, too, I have
often, in sea-storms and sieged cities and other death-scenes, exhibited an
imperturbability, which passed, falsely enough, for courage."

"So had it lasted," concludes the Wanderer, "so had it lasted, as in bitter
protracted Death-agony, through long years.  The heart within me, unvisited
by any heavenly dew-drop, was smouldering in sulphurous, slow-consuming
fire.  Almost since earliest memory I had shed no tear; or once only when
I, murmuring half-audibly, recited Faust's Death-song, that wild Selig der
den er im Siegesglanze findet (Happy whom he finds in Battle's
splendor), and thought that of this last Friend even I was not forsaken,
that Destiny itself could not doom me not to die.  Having no hope, neither
had I any definite fear, were it of Man or of Devil:  nay, I often felt as
if it might be solacing, could the Arch-Devil himself, though in Tartarean
terrors, but rise to me, that I might tell him a little of my mind.  And
yet, strangely enough, I lived in a continual, indefinite, pining fear;
tremulous, pusillanimous, apprehensive of I knew not what:  it seemed as if
all things in the Heavens above and the Earth beneath would hurt me; as if
the Heavens and the Earth were but boundless jaws of a devouring monster,
wherein I, palpitating, waited to be devoured.

"Full of such humor, and perhaps the miserablest man in the whole French
Capital or Suburbs, was I, one sultry Dog- day, after much perambulation,
toiling along the dirty little Rue Saint-Thomas de l'Enfer, among civic
rubbish enough, in a close atmosphere, and over pavements hot as
Nebuchadnezzar's Furnace; whereby doubtless my spirits were little cheered;
when, all at once, there rose a Thought in me, and I asked myself:  'What
art thou afraid of?  Wherefore, like a coward, dost thou forever pip and
whimper, and go cowering and trembling?  Despicable biped! what is the
sum-total of the worst that lies before thee?  Death?  Well, Death; and say
the pangs of Tophet too, and all that the Devil and Man may, will or can do
against thee!  Hast thou not a heart; canst thou not suffer whatsoever it
be; and, as a Child of Freedom, though outcast, trample Tophet itself under
thy feet, while it consumes thee?  Let it come, then; I will meet it and
defy it!'  And as I so thought, there rushed like a stream of fire over my
whole soul; and I shook base Fear away from me forever.  I was strong, of
unknown strength; a spirit, almost a god.  Ever from that time, the temper
of my misery was changed:  not Fear or whining Sorrow was it, but
Indignation and grim fire-eyed Defiance.

"Thus had the EVERLASTING NO (das ewige Nein) pealed authoritatively
through all the recesses of my Being, of my ME; and then was it that my
whole ME stood up, in native God-created majesty, and with emphasis
recorded its Protest.  Such a Protest, the most important transaction in
Life, may that same Indignation and Defiance, in a psychological point of
view, be fitly called.  The Everlasting No had said:  'Behold, thou art
fatherless, outcast, and the Universe is mine (the Devil's);' to which my
whole Me now made answer:  'I am not thine, but Free, and forever hate

"It is from this hour that I incline to date my Spiritual New-birth, or
Baphometic Fire-baptism; perhaps I directly thereupon began to be a Man."


Though, after this "Baphometic Fire-baptism" of his, our Wanderer signifies
that his Unrest was but increased; as, indeed, "Indignation and Defiance,"
especially against things in general, are not the most peaceable inmates;
yet can the Psychologist surmise that it was no longer a quite hopeless
Unrest; that henceforth it had at least a fixed centre to revolve round.
For the fire-baptized soul, long so scathed and thunder-riven, here feels
its own Freedom, which feeling is its Baphometic Baptism:  the citadel of
its whole kingdom it has thus gained by assault, and will keep
inexpugnable; outwards from which the remaining dominions, not indeed
without hard battling, will doubtless by degrees be conquered and
pacificated.  Under another figure, we might say, if in that great moment,
in the Rue Saint-Thomas de l'Enfer, the old inward Satanic School was not
yet thrown out of doors, it received peremptory judicial notice to
quit;—whereby, for the rest, its howl-chantings, Ernulphus-cursings, and
rebellious gnashings of teeth, might, in the mean while, become only the
more tumultuous, and difficult to keep secret.

Accordingly, if we scrutinize these Pilgrimings well, there is perhaps
discernible henceforth a certain incipient method in their madness.  Not
wholly as a Spectre does Teufelsdrockh now storm through the world; at
worst as a spectra-fighting Man, nay who will one day be a Spectre-queller.
If pilgriming restlessly to so many "Saints' Wells," and ever without
quenching of his thirst, he nevertheless finds little secular wells,
whereby from time to time some alleviation is ministered.  In a word, he is
now, if not ceasing, yet intermitting to "eat his own heart;" and clutches
round him outwardly on the NOT-ME for wholesomer food.  Does not the
following glimpse exhibit him in a much more natural state?

"Towns also and Cities, especially the ancient, I failed not to look upon
with interest.  How beautiful to see thereby, as through a long vista, into
the remote Time; to have, as it were, an actual section of almost the
earliest Past brought safe into the Present, and set before your eyes!
There, in that old City, was a live ember of Culinary Fire put down, say
only two thousand years ago; and there, burning more or less triumphantly,
with such fuel as the region yielded, it has burnt, and still burns, and
thou thyself seest the very smoke thereof.  Ah! and the far more mysterious
live ember of Vital Fire was then also put down there; and still
miraculously burns and spreads; and the smoke and ashes thereof (in these
Judgment-Halls and Churchyards), and its bellows-engines (in these
Churches), thou still seest; and its flame, looking out from every kind
countenance, and every hateful one, still warms thee or scorches thee.

"Of Man's Activity and Attainment the chief results are aeriform, mystic,
and preserved in Tradition only:  such are his Forms of Government, with
the Authority they rest on; his Customs, or Fashions both of Cloth-habits
and of Soul-habits; much more his collective stock of Handicrafts, the
whole Faculty he has acquired of manipulating Nature:  all these things, as
indispensable and priceless as they are, cannot in any way be fixed under
lock and key, but must flit, spirit-like, on impalpable vehicles, from
Father to Son; if you demand sight of them, they are nowhere to be met
with.  Visible Ploughmen and Hammermen there have been, ever from Cain and
Tubal-cain downwards:  but where does your accumulated Agricultural,
Metallurgic, and other Manufacturing SKILL lie warehoused?  It transmits
itself on the atmospheric air, on the sun's rays (by Hearing and by
Vision); it is a thing aeriform, impalpable, of quite spiritual sort.  In
like manner, ask me not, Where are the LAWS; where is the GOVERNMENT?  In
vain wilt thou go to Schonbrunn, to Downing Street, to the Palais Bourbon;
thou findest nothing there but brick or stone houses, and some bundles of
Papers tied with tape.  Where, then, is that same cunningly devised
almighty GOVERNMENT of theirs to be laid hands on?  Everywhere, yet
nowhere:  seen only in its works, this too is a thing aeriform, invisible;
or if you will, mystic and miraculous.  So spiritual (geistig) is our
whole daily Life:  all that we do springs out of Mystery, Spirit, invisible
Force; only like a little Cloud-image, or Armida's Palace, air-built, does
the Actual body itself forth from the great mystic Deep.

"Visible and tangible products of the Past, again, I reckon up to the
extent of three:  Cities, with their Cabinets and Arsenals; then tilled
Fields, to either or to both of which divisions Roads with their Bridges
may belong; and thirdly—Books.  In which third truly, the last invented,
lies a worth far surpassing that of the two others.  Wondrous indeed is the
virtue of a true Book.  Not like a dead city of stones, yearly crumbling,
yearly needing repair; more like a tilled field, but then a spiritual
field:  like a spiritual tree, let me rather say, it stands from year to
year, and from age to age (we have Books that already number some hundred
and fifty human ages); and yearly comes its new produce of leaves
(Commentaries, Deductions, Philosophical, Political Systems; or were it
only Sermons, Pamphlets, Journalistic Essays), every one of which is
talismanic and thaumaturgic, for it can persuade men.  O thou who art able
to write a Book, which once in the two centuries or oftener there is a man
gifted to do, envy not him whom they name City-builder, and inexpressibly
pity him whom they name Conqueror or City-burner!  Thou too art a Conqueror
and Victor; but of the true sort, namely over the Devil:  thou too hast
built what will outlast all marble and metal, and be a wonder-bringing City
of the Mind, a Temple and Seminary and Prophetic Mount, whereto all
kindreds of the Earth will pilgrim.— Fool! why journeyest thou
wearisomely, in thy antiquarian fervor, to gaze on the stone pyramids of
Geeza, or the clay ones of Sacchara?  These stand there, as I can tell
thee, idle and inert, looking over the Desert, foolishly enough, for the
last three thousand years:  but canst thou not open thy Hebrew BIBLE, then,
or even Luther's Version thereof?"

No less satisfactory is his sudden appearance not in Battle, yet on some
Battle-field; which, we soon gather, must be that of Wagram; so that here,
for once, is a certain approximation to distinctness of date.  Omitting
much, let us impart what follows:—

"Horrible enough!  A whole Marchfeld strewed with shell-splinters,
cannon-shot, ruined tumbrils, and dead men and horses; stragglers still
remaining not so much as buried.  And those red mould heaps; ay, there lie
the Shells of Men, out of which all the Life and Virtue has been blown; and
now are they swept together, and crammed down out of sight, like blown
Egg-shells!—Did Nature, when she bade the Donau bring down his
mould-cargoes from the Carinthian and Carpathian Heights, and spread them
out here into the softest, richest level,—intend thee, O Marchfeld, for a
corn-bearing Nursery, whereon her children might be nursed; or for a
Cockpit, wherein they might the more commodiously be throttled and
tattered?  Were thy three broad Highways, meeting here from the ends of
Europe, made for Ammunition-wagons, then?  Were thy Wagrams and Stillfrieds
but so many ready-built Casemates, wherein the house of Hapsburg might
batter with artillery, and with artillery be battered?  Konig Ottokar, amid
yonder hillocks, dies under Rodolf's truncheon; here Kaiser Franz falls
a-swoon under Napoleon's:  within which five centuries, to omit the others,
how has thy breast, fair Plain, been defaced and defiled!  The greensward
is torn up and trampled down; man's fond care of it, his fruit-trees,
hedge-rows, and pleasant dwellings, blown away with gunpowder; and the kind
seedfield lies a desolate, hideous Place of Skulls.—Nevertheless, Nature
is at work; neither shall these Powder-Devilkins with their utmost devilry
gainsay her:  but all that gore and carnage will be shrouded in, absorbed
into manure; and next year the Marchfeld will be green, nay greener.
Thrifty unwearied Nature, ever out of our great waste educing some little
profit of thy own,—how dost thou, from the very carcass of the Killer,
bring Life for the Living!

"What, speaking in quite unofficial language, is the net purport and upshot
of war?  To my own knowledge, for example, there dwell and toil, in the
British village of Dumdrudge, usually some five hundred souls.  From these,
by certain 'Natural Enemies' of the French, there are successively
selected, during the French war, say thirty able-bodied men; Dumdrudge, at
her own expense, has suckled and nursed them:  she has, not without
difficulty and sorrow, fed them up to manhood, and even trained them to
crafts, so that one can weave, another build, another hammer, and the
weakest can stand under thirty stone avoirdupois.  Nevertheless, amid much
weeping and swearing, they are selected; all dressed in red; and shipped
away, at the public charges, some two thousand miles, or say only to the
south of Spain; and fed there till wanted.  And now to that same spot, in
the south of Spain, are thirty similar French artisans, from a French
Dumdrudge, in like manner wending:  till at length, after infinite effort,
the two parties come into actual juxtaposition; and Thirty stands fronting
Thirty, each with a gun in his hand.  Straightaway the word 'Fire!' is
given; and they blow the souls out of one another; and in place of sixty
brisk useful craftsmen, the world has sixty dead carcasses, which it must
bury, and anew shed tears for.  Had these men any quarrel?  Busy as the
Devil is, not the smallest!  They lived far enough apart; were the entirest
strangers; nay, in so wide a Universe, there was even, unconsciously, by
Commerce, some mutual helpfulness between them.  How then?  Simpleton!
their Governors had fallen out; and instead of shooting one another, had
the cunning to make these poor blockheads shoot.—Alas, so is it in
Deutschland, and hitherto in all other lands; still as of old, 'what
devilry soever Kings do, the Greeks must pay the piper!'—In that fiction
of the English Smollett, it is true, the final Cessation of War is perhaps
prophetically shadowed forth; where the two Natural Enemies, in person,
take each a Tobacco-pipe, filled with Brimstone; light the same, and smoke
in one another's faces, till the weaker gives in:  but from such predicted
Peace-Era, what blood-filled trenches, and contentious centuries, may still
divide us!"

Thus can the Professor, at least in lucid intervals, look away from his own
sorrows, over the many-colored world, and pertinently enough note what is
passing there.  We may remark, indeed, that for the matter of spiritual
culture, if for nothing else, perhaps few periods of his life were richer
than this.  Internally, there is the most momentous instructive Course of
Practical Philosophy, with Experiments, going on; towards the right
comprehension of which his Peripatetic habits, favorable to Meditation,
might help him rather than hinder.  Externally, again, as he wanders to and
fro, there are, if for the longing heart little substance, yet for the
seeing eye sights enough in these so boundless Travels of his, granting
that the Satanic School was even partially kept down, what an incredible
knowledge of our Planet, and its Inhabitants and their Works, that is to
say, of all knowable things, might not Teufelsdrockh acquire!

"I have read in most Public Libraries," says he, "including those of
Constantinople and Samarcand:  in most Colleges, except the Chinese
Mandarin ones, I have studied, or seen that there was no studying.  Unknown
Languages have I oftenest gathered from their natural repertory, the Air,
by my organ of Hearing; Statistics, Geographics, Topographics came, through
the Eye, almost of their own accord.  The ways of Man, how he seeks food,
and warmth, and protection for himself, in most regions, are ocularly known
to me.  Like the great Hadrian, I meted out much of the terraqueous Globe
with a pair of Compasses that belonged to myself only.

"Of great Scenes why speak?  Three summer days, I lingered reflecting, and
even composing (dichtete), by the Pine-chasms of Vaucluse; and in that
clear Lakelet moistened my bread.  I have sat under the Palm-trees of
Tadmor; smoked a pipe among the ruins of Babylon.  The great Wall of China
I have seen; and can testify that it is of gray brick, coped and covered
with granite, and shows only second-rate masonry.—Great Events, also, have
not I witnessed?  Kings sweated down (ausgemergelt) into Berlin-and-Milan
Customhouse-Officers; the World well won, and the World well lost; oftener
than once a hundred thousand individuals shot (by each other) in one day.
All kindreds and peoples and nations dashed together, and shifted and
shovelled into heaps, that they might ferment there, and in time unite.
The birth-pangs of Democracy, wherewith convulsed Europe was groaning in
cries that reached Heaven, could not escape me.

"For great Men I have ever had the warmest predilection; and can perhaps
boast that few such in this era have wholly escaped me.  Great Men are the
inspired (speaking and acting) Texts of that divine BOOK OF REVELATIONS,
whereof a Chapter is completed from epoch to epoch, and by some named
HISTORY; to which inspired Texts your numerous talented men, and your
innumerable untalented men, are the better or worse exegetic Commentaries,
and wagon-load of too-stupid, heretical or orthodox, weekly Sermons.  For
my study, the inspired Texts themselves!  Thus did not I, in very early
days, having disguised me as tavern-waiter, stand behind the field-chairs,
under that shady Tree at Treisnitz by the Jena Highway; waiting upon the
great Schiller and greater Goethe; and hearing what I have not forgotten.

—But at this point the Editor recalls his principle of caution, some time
ago laid down, and must suppress much.  Let not the sacredness of
Laurelled, still more, of Crowned Heads, be tampered with.  Should we, at a
future day, find circumstances altered, and the time come for Publication,
then may these glimpses into the privacy of the Illustrious be conceded;
which for the present were little better than treacherous, perhaps
traitorous Eavesdroppings.  Of Lord Byron, therefore, of Pope Pius, Emperor
Tarakwang, and the "White Water-roses" (Chinese Carbonari) with their
mysteries, no notice here!  Of Napoleon himself we shall only, glancing
from afar, remark that Teufelsdrockh's relation to him seems to have been
of very varied character.  At first we find our poor Professor on the point
of being shot as a spy; then taken into private conversation, even pinched
on the ear, yet presented with no money; at last indignantly dismissed,
almost thrown out of doors, as an "Ideologist."  "He himself," says the
Professor, "was among the completest Ideologists, at least Ideopraxists:
in the Idea (in der Idee) he lived, moved and fought.  The man was a
Divine Missionary, though unconscious of it; and preached, through the
cannon's throat, that great doctrine, La carriere ouverte aux talens (The
Tools to him that can handle them), which is our ultimate Political
Evangel, wherein alone can liberty lie.  Madly enough he preached, it is
true, as Enthusiasts and first Missionaries are wont, with imperfect
utterance, amid much frothy rant; yet as articulately perhaps as the case
admitted.  Or call him, if you will, an American Backwoodsman, who had to
fell unpenetrated forests, and battle with innumerable wolves, and did not
entirely forbear strong liquor, rioting, and even theft; whom,
notwithstanding, the peaceful Sower will follow, and, as he cuts the
boundless harvest, bless."

More legitimate and decisively authentic is Teufelsdrockh's appearance and
emergence (we know not well whence) in the solitude of the North Cape, on
that June Midnight.  He has a "light-blue Spanish cloak" hanging round him,
as his "most commodious, principal, indeed sole upper-garment;" and stands
there, on the World-promontory, looking over the infinite Brine, like a
little blue Belfry (as we figure), now motionless indeed, yet ready, if
stirred, to ring quaintest changes.

"Silence as of death," writes he; "for Midnight, even in the Arctic
latitudes, has its character:  nothing but the granite cliffs ruddy-tinged,
the peaceable gurgle of that slow-heaving Polar Ocean, over which in the
utmost North the great Sun hangs low and lazy, as if he too were
slumbering.  Yet is his cloud-couch wrought of crimson and cloth-of-gold;
yet does his light stream over the mirror of waters, like a tremulous
fire-pillar, shooting downwards to the abyss, and hide itself under my
feet.  In such moments, Solitude also is invaluable; for who would speak,
or be looked on, when behind him lies all Europe and Africa, fast asleep,
except the watchmen; and before him the silent Immensity, and Palace of the
Eternal, whereof our Sun is but a porch-lamp?

"Nevertheless, in this solemn moment comes a man, or monster, scrambling
from among the rock-hollows; and, shaggy, huge as the Hyperborean Bear,
hails me in Russian speech:  most probably, therefore, a Russian Smuggler.
With courteous brevity, I signify my indifference to contraband trade, my
humane intentions, yet strong wish to be private.  In vain:  the monster,
counting doubtless on his superior stature, and minded to make sport for
himself, or perhaps profit, were it with murder, continues to advance; ever
assailing me with his importunate train-oil breath; and now has advanced,
till we stand both on the verge of the rock, the deep Sea rippling greedily
down below.  What argument will avail?  On the thick Hyperborean, cherubic
reasoning, seraphic eloquence were lost.  Prepared for such extremity, I,
deftly enough, whisk aside one step; draw out, from my interior reservoirs,
a sufficient Birmingham Horse-pistol, and say, 'Be so obliging as retire,
Friend (Er ziehe sich zuruck, Freund), and with promptitude!'  This logic
even the Hyperborean understands:  fast enough, with apologetic,
petitionary growl, he sidles off; and, except for suicidal as well as
homicidal purposes, need not return.

"Such I hold to be the genuine use of Gunpowder:  that it makes all men
alike tall.  Nay, if thou be cooler, cleverer than I, if thou have more
Mind, though all but no Body whatever, then canst thou kill me first,
and art the taller.  Hereby, at last, is the Goliath powerless, and the
David resistless; savage Animalism is nothing, inventive Spiritualism is

"With respect to Duels, indeed, I have my own ideas.  Few things, in this
so surprising world, strike me with more surprise.  Two little visual
Spectra of men, hovering with insecure enough cohesion in the midst of the
UNFATHOMABLE, and to dissolve therein, at any rate, very soon,—make pause
at the distance of twelve paces asunder; whirl round; and, simultaneously
by the cunningest mechanism, explode one another into Dissolution; and
off-hand become Air, and Non-extant!  Deuce on it (verdammt), the little
spitfires!—Nay, I think with old Hugo von Trimberg:  'God must needs laugh
outright, could such a thing be, to see his wondrous Manikins here below.'"

But amid these specialties, let us not forget the great generality, which
is our chief quest here:  How prospered the inner man of Teufelsdrockh,
under so much outward shifting!  Does Legion still lurk in him, though
repressed; or has he exorcised that Devil's Brood?  We can answer that the
symptoms continue promising.  Experience is the grand spiritual Doctor; and
with him Teufelsdrockh has now been long a patient, swallowing many a
bitter bolus.  Unless our poor Friend belong to the numerous class of
Incurables, which seems not likely, some cure will doubtless be effected.
We should rather say that Legion, or the Satanic School, was now pretty
well extirpated and cast out, but next to nothing introduced in its room;
whereby the heart remains, for the while, in a quiet but no comfortable

"At length, after so much roasting," thus writes our Autobiographer, "I was
what you might name calcined.  Pray only that it be not rather, as is the
more frequent issue, reduced to a caput-mortuum!  But in any case, by
mere dint of practice, I had grown familiar with many things.  Wretchedness
was still wretched; but I could now partly see through it, and despise it.
Which highest mortal, in this inane Existence, had I not found a
Shadow-hunter, or Shadow-hunted; and, when I looked through his brave
garnitures, miserable enough?  Thy wishes have all been sniffed aside,
thought I:  but what, had they even been all granted!  Did not the Boy
Alexander weep because he had not two Planets to conquer; or a whole Solar
System; or after that, a whole Universe?  Ach Gott, when I gazed into
these Stars, have they not looked down on me as if with pity, from their
serene spaces; like Eyes glistening with heavenly tears over the little lot
of man!  Thousands of human generations, all as noisy as our own, have been
swallowed up of Time, and there remains no wreck of them any more; and
Arcturus and Orion and Sirius and the Pleiades are still shining in their
courses, clear and young, as when the Shepherd first noted them in the
plain of Shinar.  Pshaw! what is this paltry little Dog-cage of an Earth;
what art thou that sittest whining there?  Thou art still Nothing, Nobody:
true; but who, then, is Something, Somebody?  For thee the Family of Man
has no use; it rejects thee; thou art wholly as a dissevered limb:  so be
it; perhaps it is better so!"

Too-heavy-laden Teufelsdrockh!  Yet surely his bands are loosening; one day
he will hurl the burden far from him, and bound forth free and with a
second youth.

"This," says our Professor, "was the CENTRE OF INDIFFERENCE I had now
reached; through which whoso travels from the Negative Pole to the Positive
must necessarily pass."


"Temptations in the Wilderness!  " exclaims Teufelsdrockh, "Have we not all
to be tried with such?  Not so easily can the old Adam, lodged in us by
birth, be dispossessed.  Our Life is compassed round with Necessity; yet is
the meaning of Life itself no other than Freedom, than Voluntary Force:
thus have we a warfare; in the beginning, especially, a hard-fought battle.
For the God-given mandate, Work thou in Well-doing, lies mysteriously
written, in Promethean Prophetic Characters, in our hearts; and leaves us
no rest, night or day, till it be deciphered and obeyed; till it burn
forth, in our conduct, a visible, acted Gospel of Freedom.  And as the
clay-given mandate, Eat thou and be filled, at the same time persuasively
proclaims itself through every nerve,—must not there be a confusion, a
contest, before the better Influence can become the upper?

"To me nothing seems more natural than that the Son of Man, when such
God-given mandate first prophetically stirs within him, and the Clay must
now be vanquished or vanquish,—should be carried of the spirit into grim
Solitudes, and there fronting the Tempter do grimmest battle with him;
defiantly setting him at naught till he yield and fly.  Name it as we
choose:  with or without visible Devil, whether in the natural Desert of
rocks and sands, or in the populous moral Desert of selfishness and
baseness,—to such Temptation are we all called.  Unhappy if we are not!
Unhappy if we are but Half-men, in whom that divine handwriting has never
blazed forth, all-subduing, in true sun-splendor; but quivers dubiously
amid meaner lights:  or smoulders, in dull pain, in darkness, under earthly
vapors!—Our Wilderness is the wide World in an Atheistic Century; our
Forty Days are long years of suffering and fasting:  nevertheless, to these
also comes an end.  Yes, to me also was given, if not Victory, yet the
consciousness of Battle, and the resolve to persevere therein while life or
faculty is left.  To me also, entangled in the enchanted forests,
demon-peopled, doleful of sight and of sound, it was given, after weariest
wanderings, to work out my way into the higher sunlit slopes—of that
Mountain which has no summit, or whose summit is in Heaven only!"

He says elsewhere, under a less ambitious figure; as figures are, once for
all, natural to him:  "Has not thy Life been that of most sufficient men
(tuchtigen Manner) thou hast known in this generation?  An outflush of
foolish young Enthusiasm, like the first fallow-crop, wherein are as many
weeds as valuable herbs:  this all parched away, under the Droughts of
practical and spiritual Unbelief, as Disappointment, in thought and act,
often-repeated gave rise to Doubt, and Doubt gradually settled into Denial!
If I have had a second-crop, and now see the perennial greensward, and sit
under umbrageous cedars, which defy all Drought (and Doubt); herein too, be
the Heavens praised, I am not without examples, and even exemplars."

So that, for Teufelsdrockh, also, there has been a "glorious revolution:"
these mad shadow-hunting and shadow-hunted Pilgrimings of his were but some
purifying "Temptation in the Wilderness," before his apostolic work (such
as it was) could begin; which Temptation is now happily over, and the Devil
once more worsted!  Was "that high moment in the Rue de l'Enfer," then,
properly the turning-point of the battle; when the Fiend said, Worship me,
or be torn in shreds; and was answered valiantly with an Apage
Satana?—Singular Teufelsdrockh, would thou hadst told thy singular story
in plain words!  But it is fruitless to look there, in those Paper-bags,
for such.  Nothing but innuendoes, figurative crotchets:  a typical Shadow,
fitfully wavering, prophetico-satiric; no clear logical Picture.  "How
paint to the sensual eye," asks he once, "what passes in the Holy-of-Holies
of Man's Soul; in what words, known to these profane times, speak even
afar-off of the unspeakable?"  We ask in turn:  Why perplex these times,
profane as they are, with needless obscurity, by omission and by
commission?  Not mystical only is our Professor, but whimsical; and
involves himself, now more than ever, in eye-bewildering chiaroscuro.
Successive glimpses, here faithfully imparted, our more gifted readers must
endeavor to combine for their own behoof.

He says:  "The hot Harmattan wind had raged itself out; its howl went
silent within me; and the long-deafened soul could now hear.  I paused in
my wild wanderings; and sat me down to wait, and consider; for it was as if
the hour of change drew nigh.  I seemed to surrender, to renounce utterly,
and say:  Fly, then, false shadows of Hope; I will chase you no more, I
will believe you no more.  And ye too, haggard spectres of Fear, I care not
for you; ye too are all shadows and a lie.  Let me rest here:  for I am
way-weary and life-weary; I will rest here, were it but to die:  to die or
to live is alike to me; alike insignificant."—And again:  "Here, then, as
I lay in that CENTRE OF INDIFFERENCE; cast, doubtless by benignant upper
Influence, into a healing sleep, the heavy dreams rolled gradually away,
and I awoke to a new Heaven and a new Earth.  The first preliminary moral
Act, Annihilation of Self (Selbst-todtung), had been happily
accomplished; and my mind's eyes were now unsealed, and its hands ungyved."

Might we not also conjecture that the following passage refers to his
Locality, during this same "healing sleep;" that his Pilgrim-staff lies
cast aside here, on "the high table-land;" and indeed that the repose is
already taking wholesome effect on him?  If it were not that the tone, in
some parts, has more of riancy, even of levity, than we could have
expected! However, in Teufelsdrockh, there is always the strangest Dualism:
light dancing, with guitar-music, will be going on in the fore-court, while
by fits from within comes the faint whimpering of woe and wail.  We
transcribe the piece entire.

"Beautiful it was to sit there, as in my skyey Tent, musing and meditating;
on the high table-land, in front of the Mountains; over me, as roof, the
azure Dome, and around me, for walls, four azure-flowing curtains,—namely,
of the Four azure Winds, on whose bottom-fringes also I have seen gilding.
And then to fancy the fair Castles that stood sheltered in these Mountain
hollows; with their green flower-lawns, and white dames and damosels,
lovely enough:  or better still, the straw-roofed Cottages, wherein stood
many a Mother baking bread, with her children round her:—all hidden and
protectingly folded up in the valley-folds; yet there and alive, as sure as
if I beheld them.  Or to see, as well as fancy, the nine Towns and
Villages, that lay round my mountain-seat, which, in still weather, were
wont to speak to me (by their steeple-bells) with metal tongue; and, in
almost all weather, proclaimed their vitality by repeated Smoke-clouds;
whereon, as on a culinary horologe, I might read the hour of the day.  For
it was the smoke of cookery, as kind housewives at morning, midday,
eventide, were boiling their husbands' kettles; and ever a blue pillar rose
up into the air, successively or simultaneously, from each of the nine,
saying, as plainly as smoke could say:  Such and such a meal is getting
ready here.  Not uninteresting!  For you have the whole Borough, with all
its love-makings and scandal-mongeries, contentions and contentments, as in
miniature, and could cover it all with your hat.—If, in my wide
Way-farings, I had learned to look into the business of the World in its
details, here perhaps was the place for combining it into general
propositions, and deducing inferences therefrom.

"Often also could I see the black Tempest marching in anger through the
Distance:  round some Schreckhorn, as yet grim-blue, would the eddying
vapor gather, and there tumultuously eddy, and flow down like a mad witch's
hair; till, after a space, it vanished, and, in the clear sunbeam, your
Schreckhorn stood smiling grim-white, for the vapor had held snow.  How
thou fermentest and elaboratest, in thy great fermenting-vat and laboratory
of an Atmosphere, of a World, O Nature!—Or what is Nature?  Ha! why do I
not name thee GOD?  Art not thou the 'Living Garment of God'? O Heavens, is
it, in very deed, HE, then, that ever speaks through thee; that lives and
loves in thee, that lives and loves in me?

"Fore-shadows, call them rather fore-splendors, of that Truth, and
Beginning of Truths, fell mysteriously over my soul.  Sweeter than
Dayspring to the Shipwrecked in Nova Zembla; ah, like the mother's voice to
her little child that strays bewildered, weeping, in unknown tumults; like
soft streamings of celestial music to my too-exasperated heart, came that
Evangel.  The Universe is not dead and demoniacal, a charnel-house with
spectres; but godlike, and my Father's!

"With other eyes, too, could I now look upon my fellowman:  with an
infinite Love, an infinite Pity.  Poor, wandering, wayward man!  Art thou
not tried, and beaten with stripes, even as I am?  Ever, whether thou bear
the royal mantle or the beggar's gabardine, art thou not so weary, so
heavy-laden; and thy Bed of Rest is but a Grave.  O my Brother, my Brother,
why cannot I shelter thee in my bosom, and wipe away all tears from thy
eyes!—Truly, the din of many-voiced Life, which, in this solitude, with
the mind's organ, I could hear, was no longer a maddening discord, but a
melting one; like inarticulate cries, and sobbings of a dumb creature,
which in the ear of Heaven are prayers.  The poor Earth, with her poor
joys, was now my needy Mother, not my cruel Stepdame; Man, with his so mad
Wants and so mean Endeavors, had become the dearer to me; and even for his
sufferings and his sins, I now first named him Brother.  Thus was I
standing in the porch of that 'Sanctuary of Sorrow;' by strange, steep
ways had I too been guided thither; and ere long its sacred gates would
open, and the 'Divine Depth of Sorrow' lie disclosed to me."

The Professor says, he here first got eye on the Knot that had been
strangling him, and straightway could unfasten it, and was free.  "A vain
interminable controversy," writes he, "touching what is at present called
Origin of Evil, or some such thing, arises in every soul, since the
beginning of the world; and in every soul, that would pass from idle
Suffering into actual Endeavoring, must first be put an end to.  The most,
in our time, have to go content with a simple, incomplete enough
Suppression of this controversy; to a few some Solution of it is
indispensable.  In every new era, too, such Solution comes out in different
terms; and ever the Solution of the last era has become obsolete, and is
found unserviceable.  For it is man's nature to change his Dialect from
century to century; he cannot help it though he would.  The authentic
Church-Catechism of our present century has not yet fallen into my hands:
meanwhile, for my own private behoof I attempt to elucidate the matter so.
Man's Unhappiness, as I construe, comes of his Greatness; it is because
there is an Infinite in him, which with all his cunning he cannot quite
bury under the Finite.  Will the whole Finance Ministers and Upholsterers
and Confectioners of modern Europe undertake, in joint-stock company, to
make one Shoeblack HAPPY?  They cannot accomplish it, above an hour or two:
for the Shoeblack also has a Soul quite other than his Stomach; and would
require, if you consider it, for his permanent satisfaction and saturation,
simply this allotment, no more, and no less:  God's infinite Universe
altogether to himself, therein to enjoy infinitely, and fill every wish as
fast as it rose.  Oceans of Hochheimer, a Throat like that of Ophiuchus:
speak not of them; to the infinite Shoeblack they are as nothing.  No
sooner is your ocean filled, than he grumbles that it might have been of
better vintage.  Try him with half of a Universe, of an Omnipotence, he
sets to quarrelling with the proprietor of the other half, and declares
himself the most maltreated of men.—Always there is a black spot in our
sunshine:  it is even, as I said, the Shadow of Ourselves.

"But the whim we have of Happiness is somewhat thus.  By certain
valuations, and averages, of our own striking, we come upon some sort of
average terrestrial lot; this we fancy belongs to us by nature, and of
indefeasible right.  It is simple payment of our wages, of our deserts;
requires neither thanks nor complaint; only such overplus as there may be
do we account Happiness; any deficit again is Misery.  Now consider that
we have the valuation of our own deserts ourselves, and what a fund of
Self-conceit there is in each of us,—do you wonder that the balance should
so often dip the wrong way, and many a Blockhead cry:  See there, what a
payment; was ever worthy gentleman so used!—I tell thee, Blockhead, it all
comes of thy Vanity; of what thou fanciest those same deserts of thine to
be.  Fancy that thou deservest to be hanged (as is most likely), thou wilt
feel it happiness to be only shot:  fancy that thou deservest to be hanged
in a hair-halter, it will be a luxury to die in hemp.

"So true is it, what I then said, that the Fraction of Life can be
increased in value not so much by increasing your Numerator as by lessening
your Denominator.  Nay, unless my Algebra deceive me, Unity itself
divided by Zero will give Infinity.  Make thy claim of wages a zero,
then; thou hast the world under thy feet.  Well did the Wisest of our time
write:  'It is only with Renunciation (Entsagen) that Life, properly
speaking, can be said to begin.'

"I asked myself:  What is this that, ever since earliest years, thou hast
been fretting and fuming, and lamenting and self-tormenting, on account of?
Say it in a word:  is it not because thou art not HAPPY?  Because the THOU
(sweet gentleman) is not sufficiently honored, nourished, soft-bedded, and
lovingly cared for?  Foolish soul!  What Act of Legislature was there that
thou shouldst be Happy?  A little while ago thou hadst no right to be
at all.  What if thou wert born and predestined not to be Happy, but to be
Unhappy!  Art thou nothing other than a Vulture, then, that fliest through
the Universe seeking after somewhat to eat; and shrieking dolefully
because carrion enough is not given thee?  Close thy Byron; open thy

"Es leuchtet mir ein, I see a glimpse of it!" cries he elsewhere:  "there
is in man a HIGHER than Love of Happiness:  he can do without Happiness,
and instead thereof find Blessedness!  Was it not to preach forth this same
HIGHER that sages and martyrs, the Poet and the Priest, in all times, have
spoken and suffered; bearing testimony, through life and through death, of
the Godlike that is in Man, and how in the Godlike only has he Strength and
Freedom?  Which God-inspiredd Doctrine art thou also honored to be taught;
O Heavens! and broken with manifold merciful Afflictions, even till thou
become contrite and learn it!  Oh, thank thy Destiny for these; thankfully
bear what yet remain:  thou hadst need of them; the Self in thee needed to
be annihilated.  By benignant fever-paroxysms is Life rooting out the
deep-seated chronic Disease, and triumphs over Death.  On the roaring
billows of Time, thou art not engulfed, but borne aloft into the azure of
Eternity.  Love not Pleasure; love God.  This is the EVERLASTING YEA,
wherein all contradiction is solved:  wherein whoso walks and works, it is
well with him."

And again:  "Small is it that thou canst trample the Earth with its
injuries under thy feet, as old Greek Zeno trained thee:  thou canst love
the Earth while it injures thee, and even because it injures thee; for this
a Greater than Zeno was needed, and he too was sent.  Knowest thou that
'Worship of Sorrow'?  The Temple thereof, founded some eighteen centuries
ago, now lies in ruins, overgrown with jungle, the habitation of doleful
creatures:  nevertheless, venture forward; in a low crypt, arched out of
falling fragments, thou findest the Altar still there, and its sacred Lamp
perennially burning."

Without pretending to comment on which strange utterances, the Editor will
only remark, that there lies beside them much of a still more questionable
character; unsuited to the general apprehension; nay wherein he himself
does not see his way.  Nebulous disquisitions on Religion, yet not without
bursts of splendor; on the "perennial continuance of Inspiration;" on
Prophecy; that there are "true Priests, as well as Baal-Priests, in our own
day:"  with more of the like sort.  We select some fractions, by way of
finish to this farrago.

"Cease, my much-respected Herr von Voltaire," thus apostrophizes the
Professor:  "shut thy sweet voice; for the task appointed thee seems
finished.  Sufficiently hast thou demonstrated this proposition,
considerable or otherwise:  That the Mythus of the Christian Religion looks
not in the eighteenth century as it did in the eighth.  Alas, were thy
six-and-thirty quartos, and the six-and-thirty thousand other quartos and
folios, and flying sheets or reams, printed before and since on the same
subject, all needed to convince us of so little!  But what next?  Wilt thou
help us to embody the divine Spirit of that Religion in a new Mythus, in a
new vehicle and vesture, that our Souls, otherwise too like perishing, may
live?  What! thou hast no faculty in that kind?  Only a torch for burning,
no hammer for building?  Take our thanks, then, and—thyself away.

"Meanwhile what are antiquated Mythuses to me?  Or is the God present, felt
in my own heart, a thing which Herr von Voltaire will dispute out of me; or
dispute into me?  To the 'Worship of Sorrow' ascribe what origin and
genesis thou pleasest, has not that Worship originated, and been
generated; is it not here?  Feel it in thy heart, and then say whether it
is of God!  This is Belief; all else is Opinion,—for which latter whoso
will, let him worry and be worried."

"Neither," observes he elsewhere, "shall ye tear out one another's eyes,
struggling over 'Plenary Inspiration,' and such like:  try rather to get a
little even Partial Inspiration, each of you for himself.  One BIBLE I
know, of whose Plenary Inspiration doubt is not so much as possible; nay
with my own eyes I saw the God's-Hand writing it:  thereof all other Bibles
are but Leaves,—say, in Picture-Writing to assist the weaker faculty."

Or, to give the wearied reader relief, and bring it to an end, let him take
the following perhaps more intelligible passage:—

"To me, in this our life," says the Professor, "which is an internecine
warfare with the Time-spirit, other warfare seems questionable.  Hast thou
in any way a contention with thy brother, I advise thee, think well what
the meaning thereof is.  If thou gauge it to the bottom, it is simply this:
'Fellow, see! thou art taking more than thy share of Happiness in the
world, something from my share:  which, by the Heavens, thou shalt not; nay
I will fight thee rather.'—Alas, and the whole lot to be divided is such a
beggarly matter, truly a 'feast of shells,' for the substance has been
spilled out:  not enough to quench one Appetite; and the collective human
species clutching at them!—Can we not, in all such cases, rather say:
'Take it, thou too-ravenous individual; take that pitiful additional
fraction of a share, which I reckoned mine, but which thou so wantest; take
it with a blessing:  would to Heaven I had enough for thee!'—If Fichte's
Wissenschaftslehre be, 'to a certain extent, Applied Christianity,'
surely to a still greater extent, so is this.  We have here not a Whole
Duty of Man, yet a Half Duty, namely the Passive half:  could we but do it,
as we can demonstrate it!

"But indeed Conviction, were it never so excellent, is worthless till it
convert itself into Conduct.  Nay properly Conviction is not possible till
then; inasmuch as all Speculation is by nature endless, formless, a vortex
amid vortices, only by a felt indubitable certainty of Experience does it
find any centre to revolve round, and so fashion itself into a system.
Most true is it, as a wise man teaches us, that 'Doubt of any sort cannot
be removed except by Action.' On which ground, too, let him who gropes
painfully in darkness or uncertain light, and prays vehemently that the
dawn may ripen into day, lay this other precept well to heart, which to me
was of invaluable service:  'Do the Duty which lies nearest thee,' which
thou knowest to be a Duty!  Thy second Duty will already have become

"May we not say, however, that the hour of Spiritual Enfranchisement is
even this:  When your Ideal World, wherein the whole man has been dimly
struggling and inexpressibly languishing to work, becomes revealed, and
thrown open; and you discover, with amazement enough, like the Lothario in
Wilhelm Meister, that your 'America is here or nowhere'?  The Situation
that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was never yet occupied by man.  Yes here,
in this poor, miserable, hampered, despicable Actual, wherein thou even now
standest, here or nowhere is thy Ideal:  work it out therefrom; and
working, believe, live, be free.  Fool! the Ideal is in thyself, the
impediment too is in thyself:  thy Condition is but the stuff thou art to
shape that same Ideal out of:  what matters whether such stuff be of this
sort or that, so the Form thou give it be heroic, be poetic? O thou that
pinest in the imprisonment of the Actual, and criest bitterly to the gods
for a kingdom wherein to rule and create, know this of a truth:  the thing
thou seekest is already with thee, 'here or nowhere,' couldst thou only

"But it is with man's Soul as it was with Nature:  the beginning of
Creation is—Light.  Till the eye have vision, the whole members are in
bonds.  Divine moment, when over the tempest-tost Soul, as once over the
wild-weltering Chaos, it is spoken:  Let there be Light!  Ever to the
greatest that has felt such moment, is it not miraculous and
God-announcing; even as, under simpler figures, to the simplest and least.
The mad primeval Discord is hushed; the rudely jumbled conflicting elements
bind themselves into separate Firmaments:  deep silent rock-foundations are
built beneath; and the skyey vault with its everlasting Luminaries above:
instead of a dark wasteful Chaos, we have a blooming, fertile,
heaven-encompassed World.

"I too could now say to myself:  Be no longer a Chaos, but a World, or even
Worldkin.  Produce!  Produce!  Were it but the pitifullest infinitesimal
fraction of a Product, produce it, in God's name!  'Tis the utmost thou
hast in thee:  out with it, then.  Up, up!  Whatsoever thy hand findeth to
do, do it with thy whole might.  Work while it is called To-day; for the
Night cometh, wherein no man can work."


Thus have we, as closely and perhaps satisfactorily as, in such
circumstances, might be, followed Teufelsdrockh, through the various
successive states and stages of Growth, Entanglement, Unbelief, and almost
Reprobation, into a certain clearer state of what he himself seems to
consider as Conversion.  "Blame not the word," says he; "rejoice rather
that such a word, signifying such a thing, has come to light in our modern
Era, though hidden from the wisest Ancients.  The Old World knew nothing of
Conversion; instead of an Ecce Homo, they had only some Choice of
Hercules.  It was a new-attained progress in the Moral Development of man:
hereby has the Highest come home to the bosoms of the most Limited; what to
Plato was but a hallucination, and to Socrates a chimera, is now clear and
certain to your Zinzendorfs, your Wesleys, and the poorest of their
Pietists and Methodists."

It is here, then, that the spiritual majority of Teufelsdrockh commences:
we are henceforth to see him "work in well-doing," with the spirit and
clear aims of a Man.  He has discovered that the Ideal Workshop he so
panted for is even this same Actual ill-furnished Workshop he has so long
been stumbling in.  He can say to himself:  "Tools?  Thou hast no Tools?
Why, there is not a Man, or a Thing, now alive but has tools.  The basest
of created animalcules, the Spider itself, has a spinning-jenny, and
warping-mill, and power-loom within its head:  the stupidest of Oysters has
a Papin's-Digester, with stone-and-lime house to hold it in:  every being
that can live can do something:  this let him do.— Tools?  Hast thou not
a Brain, furnished, furnishable with some glimmerings of Light; and three
fingers to hold a Pen withal?  Never since Aaron's Rod went out of
practice, or even before it, was there such a wonder-working Tool:  greater
than all recorded miracles have been performed by Pens.  For strangely in
this so solid-seeming World, which nevertheless is in continual restless
flux, it is appointed that Sound, to appearance the most fleeting, should
be the most continuing of all things.  The WORD is well said to be
omnipotent in this world; man, thereby divine, can create as by a Fiat.
Awake, arise!  Speak forth what is in thee; what God has given thee, what
the Devil shall not take away.  Higher task than that of Priesthood was
allotted to no man:  wert thou but the meanest in that sacred Hierarchy, is
it not honor enough therein to spend and be spent?

"By this Art, which whoso will may sacrilegiously degrade into a
handicraft," adds Teufelsdrockh, "have I thenceforth abidden.  Writings of
mine, not indeed known as mine (for what am I?), have fallen, perhaps not
altogether void, into the mighty seedfield of Opinion; fruits of my unseen
sowing gratifyingly meet me here and there.  I thank the Heavens that I
have now found my Calling; wherein, with or without perceptible result, I
am minded diligently to persevere.

"Nay how knowest thou," cries he, "but this and the other pregnant Device,
now grown to be a world-renowned far-working Institution; like a grain of
right mustard-seed once cast into the right soil, and now stretching out
strong boughs to the four winds, for the birds of the air to lodge in,—may
have been properly my doing?  Some one's doing, it without doubt was; from
some Idea, in some single Head, it did first of all take beginning:  why
not from some Idea in mine?"  Does Teufelsdrockh, here glance at that
Gesellschaft)," of which so many ambiguous notices glide spectra-like
through these inexpressible Paper-bags?  "An Institution," hints he, "not
unsuitable to the wants of the time; as indeed such sudden extension
proves:  for already can the Society number, among its office-bearers or
corresponding members, the highest Names, if not the highest Persons, in
Germany, England, France; and contributions, both of money and of
meditation pour in from all quarters; to, if possible, enlist the remaining
Integrity of the world, and, defensively and with forethought, marshal it
round this Palladium."  Does Teufelsdrockh mean, then, to give himself out
as the originator of that so notable Eigenthums-conservirende
("Owndom-conserving") Gesellschaft; and if so, what, in the Devil's name,
is it?  He again hints:  "At a time when the divine Commandment, Thou
shalt not steal, wherein truly, if well understood, is comprised the whole
Hebrew Decalogue, with Solon's and Lycurgrus's Constitutions, Justinian's
Pandects, the Code Napoleon, and all Codes, Catechisms, Divinities,
Moralities whatsoever, that man has hitherto devised (and enforced with
Altar-fire and Gallows-ropes) for his social guidance:  at a time, I say,
when this divine Commandment has all but faded away from the general
remembrance; and, with little disguise, a new opposite Commandment, Thou
shalt steal, is everywhere promulgated,—it perhaps behooved, in this
universal dotage and deliration, the sound portion of mankind to bestir
themselves and rally.  When the widest and wildest violations of that
divine right of Property, the only divine right now extant or conceivable,
are sanctioned and recommended by a vicious Press, and the world has lived
to hear it asserted that we have no Property in our very Bodies, but only
an accidental Possession and Life-rent, what is the issue to be looked
for?  Hangmen and Catchpoles may, by their noose-gins and baited
fall-traps, keep down the smaller sort of vermin; but what, except perhaps
some such Universal Association, can protect us against whole
meat-devouring and man-devouring hosts of Boa-constrictors.  If, therefore,
the more sequestered Thinker have wondered, in his privacy, from what hand
that perhaps not ill-written Program in the Public Journals, with its
high Prize-Questions and so liberal Prizes, could have proceeded,—let
him now cease such wonder; and, with undivided faculty, betake himself to
the Concurrenz (Competition)."

We ask:  Has this same "perhaps not ill-written Program," or any other
authentic Transaction of that Property-conserving Society, fallen under the
eye of the British Reader, in any Journal foreign or domestic?  If so, what
are those Prize-Questions; what are the terms of Competition, and when
and where?  No printed Newspaper-leaf, no farther light of any sort, to be
met with in these Paper-bags!  Or is the whole business one other of those
whimsicalities and perverse inexplicabilities, whereby Herr Teufelsdrockh,
meaning much or nothing, is pleased so often to play fast-and-loose with

Here, indeed, at length, must the Editor give utterance to a painful
suspicion, which, through late Chapters, has begun to haunt him; paralyzing
any little enthusiasm that might still have rendered his thorny
Biographical task a labor of love.  It is a suspicion grounded perhaps on
trifles, yet confirmed almost into certainty by the more and more
discernible humoristico-satirical tendency of Teufelsdrockh, in whom
underground humors and intricate sardonic rogueries, wheel within wheel,
defy all reckoning:  a suspicion, in one word, that these Autobiographical
Documents are partly a mystification!  What if many a so-called Fact were
little better than a Fiction; if here we had no direct Camera-obscura
Picture of the Professor's History; but only some more or less fantastic
Adumbration, symbolically, perhaps significantly enough, shadowing forth
the same!  Our theory begins to be that, in receiving as literally
authentic what was but hieroglyphically so, Hofrath Heuschrecke, whom in
that case we scruple not to name Hofrath Nose-of-Wax, was made a fool of,
and set adrift to make fools of others.  Could it be expected, indeed, that
a man so known for impenetrable reticence as Teufelsdrockh would all at
once frankly unlock his private citadel to an English Editor and a German
Hofrath; and not rather deceptively inlock both Editor and Hofrath in the
labyrinthic tortuosities and covered-ways of said citadel (having enticed
them thither), to see, in his half-devilish way, how the fools would look?

Of one fool, however, the Herr Professor will perhaps find himself short.
On a small slip, formerly thrown aside as blank, the ink being all but
invisible, we lately noticed, and with effort decipher, the following:
"What are your historical Facts; still more your biographical?  Wilt thou
know a Man, above all a Mankind, by stringing together bead-rolls of what
thou namest Facts?  The Man is the spirit he worked in; not what he did,
but what he became.  Facts are engraved Hierograms, for which the fewest
have the key.  And then how your Blockhead (Dummkopf) studies not their
Meaning; but simply whether they are well or ill cut, what he calls Moral
or Immoral!  Still worse is it with your Bungler (Pfuscher):  such I have
seen reading some Rousseau, with pretences of interpretation; and mistaking
the ill-cut Serpent-of-Eternity for a common poisonous reptile."  Was the
Professor apprehensive lest an Editor, selected as the present boasts
himself, might mistake the Teufelsdrockh Serpent-of-Eternity in like
manner?  For which reason it was to be altered, not without underhand
satire, into a plainer Symbol?  Or is this merely one of his half-sophisms,
half-truisms, which if he can but set on the back of a Figure, he cares not
whither it gallop?  We say not with certainty; and indeed, so strange is
the Professor, can never say.  If our suspicion be wholly unfounded, let
his own questionable ways, not our necessary circumspectness bear the

But be this as it will, the somewhat exasperated and indeed exhausted
Editor determines here to shut these Paper-bags for the present.  Let it
suffice that we know of Teufelsdrockh, so far, if "not what he did, yet
what he became:"  the rather, as his character has now taken its ultimate
bent, and no new revolution, of importance, is to be looked for.  The
imprisoned Chrysalis is now a winged Psyche:  and such, wheresoever be its
flight, it will continue.  To trace by what complex gyrations (flights or
involuntary waftings) through the mere external Life-element,
Teufelsdrockh, reaches his University Professorship, and the Psyche clothes
herself in civic Titles, without altering her now fixed nature,—would be
comparatively an unproductive task, were we even unsuspicious of its being,
for us at least, a false and impossible one.  His outward Biography,
therefore, which, at the Blumine Lover's-Leap, we saw churned utterly into
spray-vapor, may hover in that condition, for aught that concerns us here.
Enough that by survey of certain "pools and plashes," we have ascertained
its general direction; do we not already know that, by one way and other,
it has long since rained down again into a stream; and even now, at
Weissnichtwo, flows deep and still, fraught with the Philosophy of
Clothes, and visible to whoso will cast eye thereon?  Over much invaluable
matter, that lies scattered, like jewels among quarry-rubbish, in those
Paper-catacombs, we may have occasion to glance back, and somewhat will
demand insertion at the right place:  meanwhile be our tiresome diggings
therein suspended.

If now, before reopening the great Clothes-Volume, we ask what our degree
of progress, during these Ten Chapters, has been, towards right
understanding of the Clothes-Philosophy, let not our discouragement
become total.  To speak in that old figure of the Hell-gate Bridge over
Chaos, a few flying pontoons have perhaps been added, though as yet they
drift straggling on the Flood; how far they will reach, when once the
chains are straightened and fastened, can, at present, only be matter of

So much we already calculate:  Through many a little loophole, we have had
glimpses into the internal world of Teufelsdrockh; his strange mystic,
almost magic Diagram of the Universe, and how it was gradually drawn, is
not henceforth altogether dark to us.  Those mysterious ideas on TIME,
which merit consideration, and are not wholly unintelligible with such, may
by and by prove significant.  Still more may his somewhat peculiar view of
Nature, the decisive Oneness he ascribes to Nature.  How all Nature and
Life are but one Garment, a "Living Garment," woven and ever a-weaving in
the "Loom of Time; " is not here, indeed, the outline of a whole
Clothes-Philosophy; at least the arena it is to work in?  Remark, too,
that the Character of the Man, nowise without meaning in such a matter,
becomes less enigmatic:  amid so much tumultuous obscurity, almost like
diluted madness, do not a certain indomitable Defiance and yet a boundless
Reverence seem to loom forth, as the two mountain-summits, on whose
rock-strata all the rest were based and built?

Nay further, may we not say that Teufelsdrockh's Biography, allowing it
even, as suspected, only a hieroglyphical truth, exhibits a man, as it were
preappointed for Clothes-Philosophy?  To look through the Shows of things
into Things themselves he is led and compelled.  The "Passivity" given him
by birth is fostered by all turns of his fortune.  Everywhere cast out,
like oil out of water, from mingling in any Employment, in any public
Communion, he has no portion but Solitude, and a life of Meditation.  The
whole energy of his existence is directed, through long years, on one task:
that of enduring pain, if he cannot cure it.  Thus everywhere do the Shows
of things oppress him, withstand him, threaten him with fearfullest
destruction:  only by victoriously penetrating into Things themselves can
he find peace and a stronghold. But is not this same looking through the
Shows, or Vestures, into the Things, even the first preliminary to a
Philosophy of Clothes?  Do we not, in all this, discern some beckonings
towards the true higher purport of such a Philosophy; and what shape it
must assume with such a man, in such an era?

Perhaps in entering on Book Third, the courteous Reader is not utterly
without guess whither he is bound:  nor, let us hope, for all the fantastic
Dream-Grottos through which, as is our lot with Teufelsdrockh, he must
wander, will there be wanting between whiles some twinkling of a steady
Polar Star.



As a wonder-loving and wonder-seeking man, Teufelsdrockh, from an early
part of this Clothes-Volume, has more and more exhibited himself.  Striking
it was, amid all his perverse cloudiness, with what force of vision and of
heart he pierced into the mystery of the World; recognizing in the highest
sensible phenomena, so far as Sense went, only fresh or faded Raiment; yet
ever, under this, a celestial Essence thereby rendered visible:  and while,
on the one hand, he trod the old rags of Matter, with their tinsels, into
the mire, he on the other everywhere exalted Spirit above all earthly
principalities and powers, and worshipped it, though under the meanest
shapes, with a true Platonic mysticism.  What the man ultimately purposed
by thus casting his Greek-fire into the general Wardrobe of the Universe;
what such, more or less complete, rending and burning of Garments
throughout the whole compass of Civilized Life and Speculation, should lead
to; the rather as he was no Adamite, in any sense, and could not, like
Rousseau, recommend either bodily or intellectual Nudity, and a return to
the savage state:  all this our readers are now bent to discover; this is,
in fact, properly the gist and purport of Professor Teufelsdrockh's
Philosophy of Clothes.

Be it remembered, however, that such purport is here not so much evolved,
as detected to lie ready for evolving.  We are to guide our British Friends
into the new Gold-country, and show them the mines; nowise to dig out and
exhaust its wealth, which indeed remains for all time inexhaustible.  Once
there, let each dig for his own behoof, and enrich himself.

Neither, in so capricious inexpressible a Work as this of the Professor's,
can our course now more than formerly be straightforward, step by step, but
at best leap by leap.  Significant Indications stand out here and there;
which for the critical eye, that looks both widely and narrowly, shape
themselves into some ground-scheme of a Whole:  to select these with
judgment, so that a leap from one to the other be possible, and (in our old
figure) by chaining them together, a passable Bridge be effected:  this, as
heretofore, continues our only method.  Among such light-spots, the
following, floating in much wild matter about Perfectibility, has seemed
worth clutching at:—

"Perhaps the most remarkable incident in Modern History," says
Teufelsdrockh, "is not the Diet of Worms, still less the Battle of
Austerlitz, Waterloo, Peterloo, or any other Battle; but an incident passed
carelessly over by most Historians, and treated with some degree of
ridicule by others:  namely, George Fox's making to himself a suit of
Leather.  This man, the first of the Quakers, and by trade a Shoemaker, was
one of those, to whom, under ruder or purer form, the Divine Idea of the
Universe is pleased to manifest itself; and, across all the hulls of
Ignorance and earthly Degradation, shine through, in unspeakable Awfulness,
unspeakable Beauty, on their souls:  who therefore are rightly accounted
Prophets, God-possessed; or even Gods, as in some periods it has chanced.
Sitting in his stall; working on tanned hides, amid pincers, paste-horns,
rosin, swine-bristles, and a nameless flood of rubbish, this youth had,
nevertheless, a Living Spirit belonging to him; also an antique Inspired
Volume, through which, as through a window, it could look upwards, and
discern its celestial Home.  The task of a daily pair of shoes, coupled
even with some prospect of victuals, and an honorable Mastership in
Cordwainery, and perhaps the post of Thirdborough in his hundred, as the
crown of long faithful sewing,—was nowise satisfaction enough to such a
mind:  but ever amid the boring and hammering came tones from that far
country, came Splendors and Terrors; for this poor Cordwainer, as we said,
was a Man; and the Temple of Immensity, wherein as Man he had been sent to
minister, was full of holy mystery to him.

"The Clergy of the neighborhood, the ordained Watchers and Interpreters of
that same holy mystery, listened with un-affected tedium to his
consultations, and advised him, as the solution of such doubts, to 'drink
beer, and dance with the girls.'  Blind leaders of the blind!  For what end
were their tithes levied and eaten; for what were their shovel-hats scooped
out, and their surplices and cassock-aprons girt on; and such a
church-repairing, and chaffering, and organing, and other racketing, held
over that spot of God's Earth,—if Man were but a Patent Digester, and the
Belly with its adjuncts the grand Reality?  Fox turned from them, with
tears and a sacred scorn, back to his Leather-parings and his Bible.
Mountains of encumbrance, higher than AEtna, had been heaped over that
Spirit:  but it was a Spirit, and would not lie buried there.  Through long
days and nights of silent agony, it struggled and wrestled, with a man's
force, to be free:  how its prison-mountains heaved and swayed
tumultuously, as the giant spirit shook them to this hand and that, and
emerged into the light of Heaven!  That Leicester shoe-shop, had men known
it, was a holier place than any Vatican or Loretto-shrine.—'So bandaged,
and hampered, and hemmed in,' groaned he, 'with thousand requisitions,
obligations, straps, tatters, and tagrags, I can neither see nor move:  not
my own am I, but the World's; and Time flies fast, and Heaven is high, and
Hell is deep:  Man! bethink thee, if thou hast power of Thought!  Why not;
what binds me here?  Want, want!—Ha, of what?  Will all the shoe-wages
under the Moon ferry me across into that far Land of Light?  Only
Meditation can, and devout Prayer to God.  I will to the woods:  the hollow
of a tree will lodge me, wild berries feed me; and for Clothes, cannot I
stitch myself one perennial suit of Leather!'

"Historical Oil-painting," continues Teufelsdrockh, "is one of the Arts I
never practiced; therefore shall I not decide whether this subject were
easy of execution on the canvas. Yet often has it seemed to me as if such
first outflashing of man's Freewill, to lighten, more and more into Day,
the Chaotic Night that threatened to engulf him in its hindrances and its
horrors, were properly the only grandeur there is in History.  Let some
living Angelo or Rosa, with seeing eye and understanding heart, picture
George Fox on that morning, when he spreads out his cutting-board for the
last time, and cuts cowhides by unwonted patterns, and stitches them
together into one continuous all-including Case, the farewell service of
his awl!  Stitch away, thou noble Fox:  every prick of that little
instrument is pricking into the heart of Slavery, and World-worship, and
the Mammon-god.  Thy elbows jerk, as in strong swimmer-strokes, and every
stroke is bearing thee across the Prison-ditch, within which Vanity holds
her Workhouse and Ragfair, into lands of true Liberty; were the work done,
there is in broad Europe one Free Man, and thou art he!

"Thus from the lowest depth there is a path to the loftiest height; and for
the Poor also a Gospel has been published.  Surely if, as D'Alembert
asserts, my illustrious namesake, Diogenes, was the greatest man of
Antiquity, only that he wanted Decency, then by stronger reason is George
Fox the greatest of the Moderns, and greater than Diogenes himself:  for he
too stands on the adamantine basis of his Manhood, casting aside all props
and shoars; yet not, in half-savage Pride, undervaluing the Earth; valuing
it rather, as a place to yield him warmth and food, he looks Heavenward
from his Earth, and dwells in an element of Mercy and Worship, with a still
Strength, such as the Cynic's Tub did nowise witness.  Great, truly, was
that Tub; a temple from which man's dignity and divinity was scornfully
preached abroad:  but greater is the Leather Hull, for the same sermon was
preached there, and not in Scorn but in Love."

George Fox's "perennial suit," with all that it held, has been worn quite
into ashes for nigh two centuries:  why, in a discussion on the
Perfectibility of Society, reproduce it now?  Not out of blind sectarian
partisanship:  Teufelsdrockh, himself is no Quaker; with all his pacific
tendencies, did not we see him, in that scene at the North Cape, with the
Archangel Smuggler, exhibit fire-arms?

For us, aware of his deep Sansculottism, there is more meant in this
passage than meets the ear.  At the same time, who can avoid smiling at the
earnestness and Boeotian simplicity (if indeed there be not an underhand
satire in it), with which that "Incident" is here brought forward; and, in
the Professor's ambiguous way, as clearly perhaps as he durst in
Weissnichtwo, recommended to imitation!  Does Teufelsdrockh anticipate
that, in this age of refinement, any considerable class of the community,
by way of testifying against the "Mammon-god," and escaping from what he
calls "Vanity's Workhouse and Ragfair," where doubtless some of them are
toiled and whipped and hoodwinked sufficiently,—will sheathe themselves in
close-fitting cases of Leather?  The idea is ridiculous in the extreme.
Will Majesty lay aside its robes of state, and Beauty its frills and
train-gowns, for a second skin of tanned hide?  By which change
Huddersfield and Manchester, and Coventry and Paisley, and the
Fancy-Bazaar, were reduced to hungry solitudes; and only Day and Martin
could profit.  For neither would Teufelsdrockh's mad daydream, here as we
presume covertly intended, of levelling Society (levelling it indeed with
a vengeance, into one huge drowned marsh!), and so attaining the political
effects of Nudity without its frigorific or other consequences,—be thereby
realized.  Would not the rich man purchase a waterproof suit of Russia
Leather; and the high-born Belle step forth in red or azure morocco, lined
with shamoy:  the black cowhide being left to the Drudges and Gibeonites of
the world; and so all the old Distinctions be re-established?

Or has the Professor his own deeper intention; and laughs in his sleeve at
our strictures and glosses, which indeed are but a part thereof?


Not less questionable is his Chapter on Church-Clothes, which has the
farther distinction of being the shortest in the Volume.  We here translate
it entire:—

"By Church-Clothes, it need not be premised that I mean infinitely more
than Cassocks and Surplices; and do not at all mean the mere haberdasher
Sunday Clothes that men go to Church in.  Far from it!  Church-Clothes are,
in our vocabulary, the Forms, the Vestures, under which men have at
various periods embodied and represented for themselves the Religious
Principle; that is to say, invested the Divine Idea of the World with a
sensible and practically active Body, so that it might dwell among them as
a living and life-giving WORD.

"These are unspeakably the most important of all the vestures and
garnitures of Human Existence.  They are first spun and woven, I may say,
by that wonder of wonders, SOCIETY; for it is still only when 'two or three
are gathered together,' that Religion, spiritually existent, and indeed
indestructible, however latent, in each, first outwardly manifests itself
(as with 'cloven tongues of fire'), and seeks to be embodied in a visible
Communion and Church Militant.  Mystical, more than magical, is that
Communing of Soul with Soul, both looking heavenward:  here properly Soul
first speaks with Soul; for only in looking heavenward, take it in what
sense you may, not in looking earthward, does what we can call Union,
mutual Love, Society, begin to be possible.  How true is that of Novalis:
'It is certain, my Belief gains quite infinitely the moment I can
convince another mind thereof'!  Gaze thou in the face of thy Brother, in
those eyes where plays the lambent fire of Kindness, or in those where
rages the lurid conflagration of Anger; feel how thy own so quiet Soul is
straightway involuntarily kindled with the like, and ye blaze and
reverberate on each other, till it is all one limitless confluent flame (of
embracing Love, or of deadly-grappling Hate); and then say what miraculous
virtue goes out of man into man.  But if so, through all the thick-plied
hulls of our Earthly Life; how much more when it is of the Divine Life we
speak, and inmost ME is, as it were, brought into contact with inmost ME!

"Thus was it that I said, the Church Clothes are first spun and woven by
Society; outward Religion originates by Society, Society becomes possible
by Religion.  Nay, perhaps, every conceivable Society, past and present,
may well be figured as properly and wholly a Church, in one or other of
these three predicaments:  an audibly preaching and prophesying Church,
which is the best; second, a Church that struggles to preach and prophesy,
but cannot as yet, till its Pentecost come; and third and worst, a Church
gone dumb with old age, or which only mumbles delirium prior to
dissolution.  Whoso fancies that by Church is here meant Chapter-houses and
Cathedrals, or by preaching and prophesying, mere speech and chanting, let
him," says the oracular Professor, "read on, light of heart (getrosten

"But with regard to your Church proper, and the Church-Clothes specially
recognized as Church-Clothes, I remark, fearlessly enough, that without
such Vestures and sacred Tissues Society has not existed, and will not
exist.  For if Government is, so to speak, the outward SKIN of the Body
Politic, holding the whole together and protecting it; and all your
Craft-Guilds, and Associations for Industry, of hand or of head, are the
Fleshly Clothes, the muscular and osseous Tissues (lying under such
SKIN), whereby Society stands and works;—then is Religion the inmost
Pericardial and Nervous Tissue, which ministers Life and warm Circulation
to the whole.  Without which Pericardial Tissue the Bones and Muscles (of
Industry) were inert, or animated only by a Galvanic vitality; the SKIN
would become a shrivelled pelt, or fast-rotting rawhide; and Society itself
a dead carcass,—deserving to be buried.  Men were no longer Social, but
Gregarious; which latter state also could not continue, but must gradually
issue in universal selfish discord, hatred, savage isolation, and
dispersion;—whereby, as we might continue to say, the very dust and dead
body of Society would have evaporated and become abolished.  Such, and so
all-important, all-sustaining, are the Church-Clothes to civilized or even
to rational men.

"Meanwhile, in our era of the World, those same Church-Clothes have gone
sorrowfully out-at-elbows; nay, far worse, many of them have become mere
hollow Shapes, or Masks, under which no living Figure or Spirit any longer
dwells; but only spiders and unclean beetles, in horrid accumulation, drive
their trade; and the mask still glares on you with its glass eyes, in
ghastly affectation of Life,—some generation-and-half after Religion has
quite withdrawn from it, and in unnoticed nooks is weaving for herself new
Vestures, wherewith to reappear, and bless us, or our sons or grandsons.
As a Priest, or Interpreter of the Holy, is the noblest and highest of all
men, so is a Sham-priest (Schein-priester) the falsest and basest;
neither is it doubtful that his Canonicals, were they Popes' Tiaras, will
one day be torn from him, to make bandages for the wounds of mankind; or
even to burn into tinder, for general scientific or culinary purposes.

"All which, as out of place here, falls to be handled in my Second Volume,
On the Palingenesia, or Newbirth of Society; which volume, as treating
practically of the Wear, Destruction, and Retexture of Spiritual Tissues,
or Garments, forms, properly speaking, the Transcendental or ultimate
Portion of this my work on Clothes, and is already in a state of

And herewith, no farther exposition, note, or commentary being added, does
Teufelsdrockh, and must his Editor now, terminate the singular chapter on


Probably it will elucidate the drift of these foregoing obscure utterances,
if we here insert somewhat of our Professor's speculations on Symbols.
To state his whole doctrine, indeed, were beyond our compass:  nowhere is
he more mysterious, impalpable, than in this of "Fantasy being the organ of
the Godlike;" and how "Man thereby, though based, to all seeming, on the
small Visible, does nevertheless extend down into the infinite deeps of the
Invisible, of which Invisible, indeed, his Life is properly the bodying
forth."  Let us, omitting these high transcendental aspects of the matter,
study to glean (whether from the Paper-bags or the Printed Volume) what
little seems logical and practical, and cunningly arrange it into such
degree of coherence as it will assume.  By way of proem, take the following
not injudicious remarks:—

"The benignant efficacies of Concealment," cries our Professor, "who shall
speak or sing?  SILENCE and SECRECY! Altars might still be raised to them
(were this an altar-building time) for universal worship.  Silence is the
element in which great things fashion themselves together; that at length
they may emerge, full-formed and majestic, into the daylight of Life, which
they are thenceforth to rule.  Not William the Silent only, but all the
considerable men I have known, and the most undiplomatic and unstrategic of
these, forbore to babble of what they were creating and projecting.  Nay,
in thy own mean perplexities, do thou thyself but hold thy tongue for one
day:  on the morrow, how much clearer are thy purposes and duties; what
wreck and rubbish have those mute workmen within thee swept away, when
intrusive noises were shut out!  Speech is too often not, as the Frenchman
defined it, the art of concealing Thought; but of quite stifling and
suspending Thought, so that there is none to conceal.  Speech too is great,
but not the greatest. As the Swiss Inscription says:  Sprechen ist
silbern, Schweigen ist golden (Speech is silvern, Silence is golden); or
as I might rather express it:  Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.

"Bees will not work except in darkness; Thought will not work except in
Silence:  neither will Virtue work except in Secrecy.  Let not thy left
hand know what thy right hand doeth!  Neither shalt thou prate even to thy
own heart of 'those secrets known to all.' Is not Shame (Schaam) the soil
of all Virtue, of all good manners and good morals?  Like other plants,
Virtue will not grow unless its root be hidden, buried from the eye of the
sun.  Let the sun shine on it, nay do but look at it privily thyself, the
root withers, and no flower will glad thee.  O my Friends, when we view the
fair clustering flowers that overwreathe, for example, the Marriage-bower,
and encircle man's life with the fragrance and hues of Heaven, what hand
will not smite the foul plunderer that grubs them up by the roots, and,
with grinning, grunting satisfaction, shows us the dung they flourish in!
Men speak much of the Printing Press with its Newspapers:  du Himmel!
what are these to Clothes and the Tailor's Goose?

"Of kin to the so incalculable influences of Concealment, and connected
with still greater things, is the wondrous agency of Symbols.  In a
Symbol there is concealment and yet revelation; here therefore, by Silence
and by Speech acting together, comes a double significance.  And if both
the Speech be itself high, and the Silence fit and noble, how expressive
will their union be!  Thus in many a painted Device, or simple Seal-emblem,
the commonest Truth stands out to us proclaimed with quite new emphasis.

"For it is here that Fantasy with her mystic wonderland plays into the
small prose domain of Sense, and becomes incorporated therewith.  In the
Symbol proper, what we can call a Symbol, there is ever, more or less
distinctly and directly, some embodiment and revelation of the Infinite;
the Infinite is made to blend itself with the Finite, to stand visible, and
as it were, attainable there.  By Symbols, accordingly, is man guided and
commanded, made happy, made wretched:  He everywhere finds himself
encompassed with Symbols, recognized as such or not recognized:  the
Universe is but one vast Symbol of God; nay if thou wilt have it, what is
man himself but a Symbol of God; is not all that he does symbolical; a
revelation to Sense of the mystic god-given force that is in him; a 'Gospel
of Freedom,' which he, the 'Messias of Nature,' preaches, as he can, by act
and word?  Not a Hut he builds but is the visible embodiment of a Thought;
but bears visible record of invisible things; but is, in the transcendental
sense, symbolical as well as real."

"Man," says the Professor elsewhere, in quite antipodal contrast with these
high-soaring delineations, which we have here cut short on the verge of the
inane, "Man is by birth somewhat of an owl.  Perhaps, too, of all the
owleries that ever possessed him, the most owlish, if we consider it, is
that of your actually existing Motive-Millwrights.  Fantastic tricks enough
man has played, in his time; has fancied himself to be most things, down
even to an animated heap of Glass:  but to fancy himself a dead
Iron-Balance for weighing Pains and Pleasures on, was reserved for this his
latter era.  There stands he, his Universe one huge Manger, filled with hay
and thistles to be weighed against each other; and looks long-eared enough.
Alas, poor devil!  spectres are appointed to haunt him:  one age he is
hag-ridden, bewitched; the next, priest-ridden, befooled; in all ages,
bedevilled.  And now the Genius of Mechanism smothers him worse than any
Nightmare did; till the Soul is nigh choked out of him, and only a kind of
Digestive, Mechanic life remains.  In Earth and in Heaven he can see
nothing but Mechanism; has fear for nothing else, hope in nothing else:
the world would indeed grind him to pieces; but cannot he fathom the
Doctrine of Motives, and cunningly compute these, and mechanize them to
grind the other way?

"Were he not, as has been said, purblinded by enchantment, you had but to
bid him open his eyes and look.  In which country, in which time, was it
hitherto that man's history, or the history of any man, went on by
calculated or calculable 'Motives'?  What make ye of your Christianities,
and Chivalries, and Reformations, and Marseillaise Hymns, and Reigns of
Terror?  Nay, has not perhaps the Motive-grinder himself been in Love?
Did he never stand so much as a contested Election?  Leave him to Time, and
the medicating virtue of Nature."

"Yes, Friends," elsewhere observes the Professor, "not our Logical,
Mensurative faculty, but our Imaginative one is King over us; I might say,
Priest and Prophet to lead us heavenward; or Magician and Wizard to lead us
hellward.  Nay, even for the basest Sensualist, what is Sense but the
implement of Fantasy; the vessel it drinks out of?  Ever in the dullest
existence there is a sheen either of Inspiration or of Madness (thou partly
hast it in thy choice, which of the two), that gleams in from the
circumambient Eternity, and colors with its own hues our little islet of
Time.  The Understanding is indeed thy window, too clear thou canst not
make it; but Fantasy is thy eye, with its color-giving retina, healthy or
diseased.  Have not I myself known five hundred living soldiers sabred into
crows'-meat for a piece of glazed cotton, which they called their Flag;
which, had you sold it at any market-cross, would not have brought above
three groschen?  Did not the whole Hungarian Nation rise, like some
tumultuous moon-stirred Atlantic, when Kaiser Joseph pocketed their Iron
Crown; an implement, as was sagaciously observed, in size and commercial
value little differing from a horse-shoe?  It is in and through Symbols
that man, consciously or unconsciously, lives, works, and has his being:
those ages, moreover, are accounted the noblest which can the best
recognize symbolical worth, and prize it the highest.  For is not a Symbol
ever, to him who has eyes for it, some dimmer or clearer revelation of the

"Of Symbols, however, I remark farther, that they have both an extrinsic
and intrinsic value; oftenest the former only.  What, for instance, was in
that clouted Shoe, which the Peasants bore aloft with them as ensign in
their Bauernkrieg (Peasants' War)?  Or in the Wallet-and-staff round
which the Netherland Gueux, glorying in that nickname of Beggars,
heroically rallied and prevailed, though against King Philip himself?
Intrinsic significance these had none:  only extrinsic; as the accidental
Standards of multitudes more or less sacredly uniting together; in which
union itself, as above noted, there is ever something mystical and
borrowing of the Godlike.  Under a like category, too, stand, or stood, the
stupidest heraldic Coats-of-arms; military Banners everywhere; and
generally all national or other sectarian Costumes and Customs:  they have
no intrinsic, necessary divineness, or even worth; but have acquired an
extrinsic one.  Nevertheless through all these there glimmers something of
a Divine Idea; as through military Banners themselves, the Divine Idea of
Duty, of heroic Daring; in some instances of Freedom, of Right.  Nay the
highest ensign that men ever met and embraced under, the Cross itself, had
no meaning save an accidental extrinsic one.

"Another matter it is, however, when your Symbol has intrinsic meaning, and
is of itself fit that men should unite round it.  Let but the Godlike
manifest itself to Sense, let but Eternity look, more or less visibly,
through the Time-Figure (Zeitbild)!  Then is it fit that men unite there;
and worship together before such Symbol; and so from day to day, and from
age to age, superadd to it new divineness.

"Of this latter sort are all true Works of Art:  in them (if thou know a
Work of Art from a Daub of Artifice) wilt thou discern Eternity looking
through Time; the Godlike rendered visible.  Here too may an extrinsic
value gradually superadd itself:  thus certain Iliads, and the like,
have, in three thousand years, attained quite new significance.  But nobler
than all in this kind are the Lives of heroic god-inspired Men; for what
other Work of Art is so divine?  In Death too, in the Death of the Just, as
the last perfection of a Work of Art, may we not discern symbolic meaning?
In that divinely transfigured Sleep, as of Victory, resting over the
beloved face which now knows thee no more, read (if thou canst for tears)
the confluence of Time with Eternity, and some gleam of the latter peering

"Highest of all Symbols are those wherein the Artist or Poet has risen into
Prophet, and all men can recognize a present God, and worship the Same:  I
mean religious Symbols.  Various enough have been such religious Symbols,
what we call Religions; as men stood in this stage of culture or the
other, and could worse or better body forth the Godlike:  some Symbols with
a transient intrinsic worth; many with only an extrinsic.  If thou ask to
what height man has carried it in this manner, look on our divinest Symbol:
on Jesus of Nazareth, and his Life, and his Biography, and what followed
therefrom.  Higher has the human Thought not yet reached:  this is
Christianity and Christendom; a Symbol of quite perennial, infinite
character; whose significance will ever demand to be anew inquired into,
and anew made manifest.

"But, on the whole, as Time adds much to the sacredness of Symbols, so
likewise in his progress he at length defaces, or even desecrates them; and
Symbols, like all terrestrial Garments, wax old.  Homer's Epos has not
ceased to be true; yet it is no longer our Epos, but shines in the
distance, if clearer and clearer, yet also smaller and smaller, like a
receding Star.  It needs a scientific telescope, it needs to be
reinterpreted and artificially brought near us, before we can so much as
know that it was a Sun.  So likewise a day comes when the Runic Thor,
with his Eddas, must withdraw into dimness; and many an African Mumbo-Jumbo
and Indian Pawaw be utterly abolished.  For all things, even Celestial
Luminaries, much more atmospheric meteors, have their rise, their
culmination, their decline.

"Small is this which thou tellest me, that the Royal Sceptre is but a piece
of gilt wood; that the Pyx has become a most foolish box, and truly, as
Ancient Pistol thought, 'of little price.'  A right Conjurer might I name
thee, couldst thou conjure back into these wooden tools the divine virtue
they once held.

"Of this thing, however, be certain:  wouldst thou plant for Eternity, then
plant into the deep infinite faculties of man, his Fantasy and Heart;
wouldst thou plant for Year and Day, then plant into his shallow
superficial faculties, his Self-love and Arithmetical Understanding, what
will grow there.  A Hierarch, therefore, and Pontiff of the World will we
call him, the Poet and inspired Maker; who, Prometheus-like, can shape new
Symbols, and bring new Fire from Heaven to fix it there.  Such too will not
always be wanting; neither perhaps now are.  Meanwhile, as the average of
matters goes, we account him Legislator and wise who can so much as tell
when a Symbol has grown old, and gently remove it.

"When, as the last English Coronation* I was preparing," concludes this
wonderful Professor, "I read in their Newspapers that the 'Champion of
England,' he who has to offer battle to the Universe for his new King, had
brought it so far that he could now 'mount his horse with little
assistance,' I said to myself:  Here also we have a Symbol well-nigh
superannuated.  Alas, move whithersoever you may, are not the tatters and
rags of superannuated worn-out Symbols (in this Ragfair of a World)
dropping off everywhere, to hoodwink, to halter, to tether you; nay, if you
shake them not aside, threatening to accumulate, and perhaps produce

*That of George IV.—ED.


At this point we determine on adverting shortly, or rather reverting, to a
certain Tract of Hofrath Heuschrecke's, entitled Institute for the
Repression of Population; which lies, dishonorably enough (with torn
leaves, and a perceptible smell of aloetic drugs), stuffed into the Bag
Pisces.  Not indeed for the sake of the tract itself, which we admire
little; but of the marginal Notes, evidently in Teufelsdrockh's hand, which
rather copiously fringe it.  A few of these may be in their right place

Into the Hofrath's Institute, with its extraordinary schemes, and
machinery of Corresponding Boards and the like, we shall not so much as
glance.  Enough for us to understand that Heuschrecke is a disciple of
Malthus; and so zealous for the doctrine, that his zeal almost literally
eats him up.  A deadly fear of Population possesses the Hofrath; something
like a fixed idea; undoubtedly akin to the more diluted forms of Madness.
Nowhere, in that quarter of his intellectual world, is there light; nothing
but a grim shadow of Hunger; open mouths opening wider and wider; a world
to terminate by the frightfullest consummation:  by its too dense
inhabitants, famished into delirium, universally eating one another.  To
make air for himself in which strangulation, choking enough to a benevolent
heart, the Hofrath founds, or proposes to found, this Institute of his,
as the best he can do.  It is only with our Professor's comments thereon
that we concern ourselves.

First, then, remark that Teufelsdrockh, as a speculative Radical, has his
own notions about human dignity; that the Zahdarm palaces and courtesies
have not made him forgetful of the Futteral cottages.  On the blank cover
of Heuschrecke's Tract we find the following indistinctly engrossed:—

"Two men I honor, and no third.  First, the toilworn Craftsman that with
earth-made Implement laboriously conquers the Earth, and makes her man's.
Venerable to me is the hard Hand; crooked, coarse; wherein notwithstanding
lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the Sceptre of this
Planet.  Venerable too is the rugged face, all weather-tanned, besoiled,
with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a Man living manlike.
Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity
as well as love thee!  Hardly-entreated Brother!  For us was thy back so
bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed:  thou wert
our Conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so
marred.  For in thee too lay a god-created Form, but it was not to be
unfolded; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements
of Labor:  and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom.  Yet toil
on, toil on:  thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest
for the altogether indispensable, for daily bread.

"A second man I honor, and still more highly:  Him who is seen toiling for
the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of Life.  Is
not he too in his duty; endeavoring towards inward Harmony; revealing this,
by act or by word, through all his outward endeavors, be they high or low?
Highest of all, when his outward and his inward endeavor are one:  when we
can name him Artist; not earthly Craftsman only, but inspired Thinker, who
with heaven-made Implement conquers Heaven for us!  If the poor and humble
toil that we have Food, must not the high and glorious toil for him in
return, that he have Light, have Guidance, Freedom, Immortality?—These
two, in all their degrees, I honor:  all else is chaff and dust, which let
the wind blow whither it listeth.

"Unspeakably touching is it, however, when I find both dignities united;
and he that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man's wants, is also
toiling inwardly for the highest.  Sublimer in this world know I nothing
than a Peasant Saint, could such now anywhere be met with.  Such a one will
take thee back to Nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendor of Heaven
spring forth from the humblest depths of Earth, like a light shining in
great darkness."

And again:  "It is not because of his toils that I lament for the poor:  we
must all toil, or steal (howsoever we name our stealing), which is worse;
no faithful workman finds his task a pastime.  The poor is hungry and
athirst; but for him also there is food and drink:  he is heavy-laden and
weary; but for him also the Heavens send Sleep, and of the deepest; in his
smoky cribs, a clear dewy heaven of Rest envelops him; and fitful
glitterings of cloud-skirted Dreams.  But what I do mourn over is, that the
lamp of his soul should go out; that no ray of heavenly, or even of earthly
knowledge, should visit him; but only, in the haggard darkness, like two
spectres, Fear and Indignation bear him company.  Alas, while the Body
stands so broad and brawny, must the Soul lie blinded, dwarfed, stupefied,
almost annihilated!  Alas, was this too a Breath of God; bestowed in
Heaven, but on earth never to be unfolded!—That there should one Man die
ignorant who had capacity for Knowledge, this I call a tragedy, were it to
happen more than twenty times in the minute, as by some computations it
does.  The miserable fraction of Science which our united Mankind, in a
wide Universe of Nescience, has acquired, why is not this, with all
diligence, imparted to all?"

Quite in an opposite strain is the following:  "The old Spartans had a
wiser method; and went out and hunted down their Helots, and speared and
spitted them, when they grew too numerous.  With our improved fashions of
hunting, Herr Hofrath, now after the invention of fire-arms, and standing
armies, how much easier were such a hunt!  Perhaps in the most thickly
peopled country, some three days annually might suffice to shoot all the
able-bodied Paupers that had accumulated within the year.  Let Governments
think of this.  The expense were trifling:  nay the very carcasses would
pay it.  Have them salted and barrelled; could not you victual therewith,
if not Army and Navy, yet richly such infirm Paupers, in workhouses and
elsewhere, as enlightened Charity, dreading no evil of them, might see good
to keep alive?"

"And yet," writes he farther on, "there must be something wrong.  A
full-formed Horse will, in any market, bring from twenty to as high as two
hundred Friedrichs d'or:  such is his worth to the world.  A full-formed
Man is not only worth nothing to the world, but the world could afford him
a round sum would he simply engage to go and hang himself.  Nevertheless,
which of the two was the more cunningly devised article, even as an Engine?
Good Heavens!  A white European Man, standing on his two Legs, with his two
five-fingered Hands at his shackle-bones, and miraculous Head on his
shoulders, is worth, I should say, from fifty to a hundred Horses!"

"True, thou Gold-Hofrath," cries the Professor elsewhere:  "too crowded
indeed!  Meanwhile, what portion of this inconsiderable terraqueous Globe
have ye actually tilled and delved, till it will grow no more?  How thick
stands your Population in the Pampas and Savannas of America; round ancient
Carthage, and in the interior of Africa; on both slopes of the Altaic
chain, in the central Platform of Asia; in Spain, Greece, Turkey, Crim
Tartary, the Curragh of Kildare?  One man, in one year, as I have
understood it, if you lend him Earth, will feed himself and nine others.
Alas, where now are the Hengsts and Alarics of our still-glowing,
still-expanding Europe; who, when their home is grown too narrow, will
enlist, and, like Fire-pillars, guide onwards those superfluous masses of
indomitable living Valor; equipped, not now with the battle-axe and
war-chariot, but with the steam engine and ploughshare?  Where are
they?—Preserving their Game!"



Putting which four singular Chapters together, and alongside of them
numerous hints, and even direct utterances, scattered over these Writings
of his, we come upon the startling yet not quite unlooked-for conclusion,
that Teufelsdrockh is one of those who consider Society, properly so
called, to be as good as extinct; and that only the gregarious feelings,
and old inherited habitudes, at this juncture, hold us from Dispersion, and
universal national, civil, domestic and personal war!  He says expressly:
"For the last three centuries, above all for the last three quarters of a
century, that same Pericardial Nervous Tissue (as we named it) of Religion,
where lies the Life-essence of Society, has been smote at and perforated,
needfully and needlessly; till now it is quite rent into shreds; and
Society, long pining, diabetic, consumptive, can be regarded as defunct;
for those spasmodic, galvanic sprawlings are not life; neither indeed will
they endure, galvanize as you may, beyond two days."

"Call ye that a Society," cries he again, "where there is no longer any
Social Idea extant; not so much as the Idea of a common Home, but only of a
common over-crowded Lodging-house?  Where each, isolated, regardless of his
neighbor, turned against his neighbor, clutches what he can get, and cries
'Mine!' and calls it Peace, because, in the cut-purse and cut-throat
Scramble, no steel knives, but only a far cunninger sort, can be employed?
Where Friendship, Communion, has become an incredible tradition; and your
holiest Sacramental Supper is a smoking Tavern Dinner, with Cook for
Evangelist?  Where your Priest has no tongue but for plate-licking:  and
your high Guides and Governors cannot guide; but on all hands hear it
passionately proclaimed:  Laissez faire; Leave us alone of your
guidance, such light is darker than darkness; eat you your wages, and

"Thus, too," continues he, "does an observant eye discern everywhere that
saddest spectacle:  The Poor perishing, like neglected, foundered
Draught-Cattle, of Hunger and Overwork; the Rich, still more wretchedly, of
Idleness, Satiety, and Overgrowth.  The Highest in rank, at length, without
honor from the Lowest; scarcely, with a little mouth-honor, as from
tavern-waiters who expect to put it in the bill.  Once-sacred Symbols
fluttering as empty Pageants, whereof men grudge even the expense; a World
becoming dismantled:  in one word, the STATE fallen speechless, from
obesity and apoplexy; the STATE shrunken into a Police-Office, straitened
to get its pay!"

We might ask, are there many "observant eyes," belonging to practical men
in England or elsewhere, which have descried these phenomena; or is it only
from the mystic elevation of a German Wahngasse that such wonders are
visible?  Teufelsdrockh contends that the aspect of a "deceased or expiring
Society" fronts us everywhere, so that whoso runs may read.  "What, for
example," says he, "is the universally arrogated Virtue, almost the sole
remaining Catholic Virtue, of these days?  For some half-century, it has
been the thing you name 'Independence.'  Suspicion of 'Servility,' of
reverence for Superiors, the very dog-leech is anxious to disavow.  Fools!
Were your Superiors worthy to govern, and you worthy to obey, reverence for
them were even your only possible freedom.  Independence, in all kinds, is
rebellion; if unjust rebellion, why parade it, and everywhere prescribe

But what then?  Are we returning, as Rousseau prayed, to the state of
Nature?  "The Soul Politic having departed," says Teufelsdrockh, "what can
follow but that the Body Politic be decently interred, to avoid
putrescence?  Liberals, Economists, Utilitarians enough I see marching with
its bier, and chanting loud paeans, towards the funeral pile, where, amid
wailings from some, and saturnalian revelries from the most, the venerable
Corpse is to be burnt.  Or, in plain words, that these men, Liberals,
Utilitarians, or whatsoever they are called, will ultimately carry their
point, and dissever and destroy most existing Institutions of Society,
seems a thing which has some time ago ceased to be doubtful.

"Do we not see a little subdivision of the grand Utilitarian Armament come
to light even in insulated England?  A living nucleus, that will attract
and grow, does at length appear there also; and under curious phasis;
properly as the inconsiderable fag-end, and so far in the rear of the
others as to fancy itself the van.  Our European Mechanizers are a sect of
boundless diffusion, activity, and co-operative spirit:  has not
Utilitarianism flourished in high places of Thought, here among ourselves,
and in every European country, at some time or other, within the last fifty
years?  If now in all countries, except perhaps England, it has ceased to
flourish, or indeed to exist, among Thinkers, and sunk to Journalists and
the popular mass,—who sees not that, as hereby it no longer preaches, so
the reason is, it now needs no Preaching, but is in full universal Action,
the doctrine everywhere known, and enthusiastically laid to heart?  The fit
pabulum, in these times, for a certain rugged workshop intellect and heart,
nowise without their corresponding workshop strength and ferocity, it
requires but to be stated in such scenes to make proselytes enough.—
Admirably calculated for destroying, only not for rebuilding!  It spreads
like a sort of Dog-madness; till the whole World-kennel will be rabid:
then woe to the Huntsmen, with or without their whips!  They should have
given the quadrupeds water," adds he; "the water, namely, of Knowledge and
of Life, while it was yet time."

Thus, if Professor Teufelsdrockh can be relied on, we are at this hour in a
most critical condition; beleaguered by that boundless "Armament of
Mechanizers" and Unbelievers, threatening to strip us bare!  "The World,"
says he, "as it needs must, is under a process of devastation and waste.
which, whether by silent assiduous corrosion, or open quicker combustion,
as the case chances, will effectually enough annihilate the past Forms of
Society; replace them with what it may.  For the present, it is
contemplated that when man's whole Spiritual Interests are once divested,
these innumerable stript-off Garments shall mostly be burnt; but the
sounder Rags among them be quilted together into one huge Irish watch-coat
for the defence of the Body only!"—This, we think, is but Job's-news to
the humane reader.

"Nevertheless," cries Teufelsdrockh, "who can hinder it; who is there that
can clutch into the wheelspokes of Destiny, and say to the Spirit of the
Time:  Turn back, I command thee?—Wiser were it that we yielded to the
Inevitable and Inexorable, and accounted even this the best."

Nay, might not an attentive Editor, drawing his own inferences from what
stands written, conjecture that Teufelsdrockh, individually had yielded to
this same "Inevitable and Inexorable" heartily enough; and now sat waiting
the issue, with his natural diabolico-angelical Indifference, if not even
Placidity?  Did we not hear him complain that the World was a "huge
Ragfair," and the "rags and tatters of old Symbols" were raining down
everywhere, like to drift him in, and suffocate him?  What with those
"unhunted Helots" of his; and the uneven sic vos non vobis pressure and
hard-crashing collision he is pleased to discern in existing things; what
with the so hateful "empty Masks," full of beetles and spiders, yet glaring
out on him, from their glass eyes, "with a ghastly affectation of
life,"—we feel entitled to conclude him even willing that much should be
thrown to the Devil, so it were but done gently!  Safe himself in that
"Pinnacle of Weissnichtwo," he would consent, with a tragic solemnity, that
the monster UTILITARIA, held back, indeed, and moderated by nose-rings,
halters, foot-shackles, and every conceivable modification of rope, should
go forth to do her work;—to tread down old ruinous Palaces and Temples
with her broad hoof, till the whole were trodden down, that new and better
might be built!  Remarkable in this point of view are the following

"Society," says he, "is not dead:  that Carcass, which you call dead
Society, is but her mortal coil which she has shuffled off, to assume a
nobler; she herself, through perpetual metamorphoses, in fairer and fairer
development, has to live till Time also merge in Eternity.  Wheresoever two
or three Living Men are gathered together, there is Society; or there it
will be, with its cunning mechanisms and stupendous structures,
overspreading this little Globe, and reaching upwards to Heaven and
downwards to Gehenna:  for always, under one or the other figure, it has
two authentic Revelations, of a God and of a Devil; the Pulpit, namely, and
the Gallows."

Indeed, we already heard him speak of "Religion, in unnoticed nooks,
weaving for herself new Vestures;"—Teufelsdrockh himself being one of the
loom-treadles?  Elsewhere he quotes without censure that strange aphorism
of Saint Simon's, concerning which and whom so much were to be said:
"L'age d'or, qu'une aveugle tradition a place jusqu'ici dans le passe, est
devant nous; The golden age, which a blind tradition has hitherto placed
in the Past, is Before us."—But listen again:—

"When the Phoenix is fanning her funeral pyre, will there not be sparks
flying!  Alas, some millions of men, and among them such as a Napoleon,
have already been licked into that high-eddying Flame, and like moths
consumed there.  Still also have we to fear that incautious beards will get

"For the rest, in what year of grace such Phoenix-cremation will be
completed, you need not ask.  The law of Perseverance is among the deepest
in man:  by nature he hates change; seldom will he quit his old house till
it has actually fallen about his ears.  Thus have I seen Solemnities linger
as Ceremonies, sacred Symbols as idle Pageants, to the extent of three
hundred years and more after all life and sacredness had evaporated out of
them.  And then, finally, what time the Phoenix Death-Birth itself will
require, depends on unseen contingencies.—Meanwhile, would Destiny offer
Mankind, that after, say two centuries of convulsion and conflagration,
more or less vivid, the fire-creation should be accomplished, and we to
find ourselves again in a Living Society, and no longer fighting but
working,—were it not perhaps prudent in Mankind to strike the bargain?"

Thus is Teufelsdrockh, content that old sick Society should be deliberately
burnt (alas, with quite other fuel than spice-wood); in the faith that she
is a Phoenix; and that a new heaven-born young one will rise out of her
ashes!  We ourselves, restricted to the duty of Indicator, shall forbear
commentary.  Meanwhile, will not the judicious reader shake his head, and
reproachfully, yet more in sorrow than in anger, say or think:  From a
Doctor utriusque Juris, titular Professor in a University, and man to
whom hitherto, for his services, Society, bad as she is, has given not only
food and raiment (of a kind), but books, tobacco and gukguk, we expected
more gratitude to his benefactress; and less of a blind trust in the future
which resembles that rather of a philosophical Fatalist and Enthusiast,
than of a solid householder paying scot-and-lot in a Christian country.


As mentioned above, Teufelsdrockh, though a Sansculottist, is in practice
probably the politest man extant:  his whole heart and life are penetrated
and informed with the spirit of politeness; a noble natural Courtesy shines
through him, beautifying his vagaries; like sunlight, making a
rosyfingered, rainbow-dyed Aurora out of mere aqueous clouds; nay
brightening London-smoke itself into gold vapor, as from the crucible of an
alchemist.  Hear in what earnest though fantastic wise he expresses himself
on this head:—

"Shall Courtesy be done only to the rich, and only by the rich?  In
Good-breeding, which differs, if at all, from High-breeding, only as it
gracefully remembers the rights of others, rather than gracefully insists
on its own rights, I discern no special connection with wealth or birth:
but rather that it lies in human nature itself, and is due from all men
towards all men.  Of a truth, were your Schoolmaster at his post, and worth
anything when there, this, with so much else, would be reformed.  Nay, each
man were then also his neighbor's schoolmaster; till at length a
rude-visaged, unmannered Peasant could no more be met with, than a Peasant
unacquainted with botanical Physiology, or who felt not that the clod he
broke was created in Heaven.

"For whether thou bear a sceptre or a sledge-hammer, art not thou ALIVE; is
not this thy brother ALIVE?  'There is but one temple in the world,' says
Novalis, 'and that temple is the Body of Man.  Nothing is holier than this
high Form.  Bending before men is a reverence done to this Revelation in
the Flesh.  We touch Heaven, when we lay our hands on a human Body.'

"On which ground, I would fain carry it farther than most do; and whereas
the English Johnson only bowed to every Clergyman, or man with a
shovel-hat, I would bow to every Man with any sort of hat, or with no hat
whatever.  Is not he a Temple, then; the visible Manifestation and
Impersonation of the Divinity?  And yet, alas, such indiscriminate bowing
serves not.  For there is a Devil dwells in man, as well as a Divinity; and
too often the bow is but pocketed by the former.  It would go to the
pocket of Vanity (which is your clearest phasis of the Devil, in these
times); therefore must we withhold it.

"The gladder am I, on the other hand, to do reverence to those Shells and
outer Husks of the Body, wherein no devilish passion any longer lodges, but
only the pure emblem and effigies of Man:  I mean, to Empty, or even to
Cast Clothes.  Nay, is it not to Clothes that most men do reverence:  to
the fine frogged broadcloth, nowise to the 'straddling animal with bandy
legs' which it holds, and makes a Dignitary of?  Who ever saw any Lord
my-lorded in tattered blanket fastened with wooden skewer?  Nevertheless, I
say, there is in such worship a shade of hypocrisy, a practical deception:
for how often does the Body appropriate what was meant for the Cloth only!
Whoso would avoid falsehood, which is the essence of all Sin, will perhaps
see good to take a different course.  That reverence which cannot act
without obstruction and perversion when the Clothes are full, may have free
course when they are empty.  Even as, for Hindoo Worshippers, the Pagoda is
not less sacred than the God; so do I too worship the hollow cloth Garment
with equal fervor, as when it contained the Man:  nay, with more, for I now
fear no deception, of myself or of others.

"Did not King Toomtabard, or, in other words, John Baliol, reign long
over Scotland; the man John Baliol being quite gone, and only the 'Toom
Tabard' (Empty Gown) remaining?  What still dignity dwells in a suit of
Cast Clothes!  How meekly it bears its honors!  No haughty looks, no
scornful gesture:  silent and serene, it fronts the world; neither
demanding worship, nor afraid to miss it.  The Hat still carries the
physiognomy of its Head:  but the vanity and the stupidity, and
goose-speech which was the sign of these two, are gone.  The Coat-arm is
stretched out, but not to strike; the Breeches, in modest simplicity,
depend at ease, and now at last have a graceful flow; the Waistcoat hides
no evil passion, no riotous desire; hunger or thirst now dwells not in it.
Thus all is purged from the grossness of sense, from the carking cares and
foul vices of the World; and rides there, on its Clothes-horse; as, on a
Pegasus, might some skyey Messenger, or purified Apparition, visiting our
low Earth.

"Often, while I sojourned in that monstrous tuberosity of Civilized Life,
the Capital of England; and meditated, and questioned Destiny, under that
ink-sea of vapor, black, thick, and multifarious as Spartan broth; and was
one lone soul amid those grinding millions;—often have I turned into their
Old-Clothes Market to worship.  With awe-struck heart I walk through that
Monmouth Street, with its empty Suits, as through a Sanhedrim of stainless
Ghosts.  Silent are they, but expressive in their silence:  the past
witnesses and instruments of Woe and Joy, of Passions, Virtues, Crimes, and
all the fathomless tumult of Good and Evil in 'the Prison men call Life.'
Friends! trust not the heart of that man for whom Old Clothes are not
venerable.  Watch, too, with reverence, that bearded Jewish High-priest,
who with hoarse voice, like some Angel of Doom, summons them from the four
winds!  On his head, like the Pope, he has three Hats,—a real triple
tiara; on either hand are the similitude of wings, whereon the summoned
Garments come to alight; and ever, as he slowly cleaves the air, sounds
forth his deep fateful note, as if through a trumpet he were proclaiming:
'Ghosts of Life, come to Judgment!'  Reck not, ye fluttering Ghosts:  he
will purify you in his Purgatory, with fire and with water; and, one day,
new-created ye shall reappear.  Oh, let him in whom the flame of Devotion
is ready to go out, who has never worshipped, and knows not what to
worship, pace and repace, with austerest thought, the pavement of Monmouth
Street, and say whether his heart and his eyes still continue dry.  If
Field Lane, with its long fluttering rows of yellow handkerchiefs, be a
Dionysius' Ear, where, in stifled jarring hubbub, we hear the Indictment
which Poverty and Vice bring against lazy Wealth, that it has left them
there cast out and trodden under foot of Want, Darkness and the
Devil,—then is Monmouth Street a Mirza's Hill, where, in motley vision,
the whole Pageant of Existence passes awfully before us; with its wail and
jubilee, mad loves and mad hatreds, church-bells and gallows-ropes,
farce-tragedy, beast-godhood,—the Bedlam of Creation!"

To most men, as it does to ourselves, all this will seem overcharged.  We
too have walked through Monmouth Street; but with little feeling of
"Devotion:"  probably in part because the contemplative process is so
fatally broken in upon by the brood of money-changers who nestle in that
Church, and importune the worshipper with merely secular proposals.
Whereas Teufelsdrockh, might be in that happy middle state, which leaves to
the Clothes-broker no hope either of sale or of purchase, and so be allowed
to linger there without molestation.—Something we would have given to see
the little philosophical figure, with its steeple-hat and loose flowing
skirts, and eyes in a fine frenzy, "pacing and repacing in austerest
thought" that foolish Street; which to him was a true Delphic avenue, and
supernatural Whispering-gallery, where the "Ghosts of Life" rounded strange
secrets in his ear.  O thou philosophic Teufelsdrockh, that listenest while
others only gabble, and with thy quick tympanum hearest the grass grow!

At the same time, is it not strange that, in Paper-bag Documents destined
for an English work, there exists nothing like an authentic diary of this
his sojourn in London; and of his Meditations among the Clothes-shops only
the obscurest emblematic shadows?  Neither, in conversation (for, indeed,
he was not a man to pester you with his Travels), have we heard him more
than allude to the subject.

For the rest, however, it cannot be uninteresting that we here find how
early the significance of Clothes had dawned on the now so distinguished
Clothes-Professor.  Might we but fancy it to have been even in Monmouth
Street, at the bottom of our own English "ink-sea," that this remarkable
Volume first took being, and shot forth its salient point in his soul,—as
in Chaos did the Egg of Eros, one day to be hatched into a Universe!


For us, who happen to live while the World-Phoenix is burning herself, and
burning so slowly that, as Teufelsdrockh calculates, it were a handsome
bargain would she engage to have done "within two centuries," there seems
to lie but an ashy prospect.  Not altogether so, however, does the
Professor figure it.  "In the living subject," says he, "change is wont to
be gradual:  thus, while the serpent sheds its old skin, the new is already
formed beneath.  Little knowest thou of the burning of a World-Phoenix, who
fanciest that she must first burn out, and lie as a dead cinereous heap;
and therefrom the young one start up by miracle, and fly heavenward.  Far
otherwise!  In that Fire-whirlwind, Creation and Destruction proceed
together; ever as the ashes of the Old are blown about, do organic
filaments of the New mysteriously spin themselves:  and amid the rushing
and the waving of the Whirlwind element come tones of a melodious
Death-song, which end not but in tones of a more melodious Birth-song.
Nay, look into the Fire-whirlwind with thy own eyes, and thou wilt see."
Let us actually look, then:  to poor individuals, who cannot expect to live
two centuries, those same organic filaments, mysteriously spinning
themselves, will be the best part of the spectacle.  First, therefore, this
of Mankind in general:—

"In vain thou deniest it," says the Professor; "thou art my Brother.  Thy
very Hatred, thy very Envy, those foolish Lies thou tellest of me in thy
splenetic humor:  what is all this but an inverted Sympathy?  Were I a
Steam-engine, wouldst thou take the trouble to tell lies of me?  Not thou!
I should grind all unheeded, whether badly or well.

"Wondrous truly are the bonds that unite us one and all; whether by the
soft binding of Love, or the iron chaining of Necessity, as we like to
choose it.  More than once have I said to myself, of some perhaps
whimsically strutting Figure, such as provokes whimsical thoughts:  'Wert
thou, my little Brotherkin, suddenly covered up within the largest
imaginable Glass bell,—what a thing it were, not for thyself only, but for
the world!  Post Letters, more or fewer, from all the four winds, impinge
against thy Glass walls, but have to drop unread:  neither from within
comes there question or response into any Post-bag; thy Thoughts fall into
no friendly ear or heart, thy Manufacture into no purchasing hand:  thou
art no longer a circulating venous-arterial Heart, that, taking and giving,
circulatest through all Space and all Time:  there has a Hole fallen out in
the immeasurable, universal World-tissue, which must be darned up again!'

"Such venous-arterial circulation, of Letters, verbal Messages, paper and
other Packages, going out from him and coming in, are a blood-circulation,
visible to the eye:  but the finer nervous circulation, by which all
things, the minutest that he does, minutely influence all men, and the very
look of his face blesses or curses whomso it lights on, and so generates
ever new blessing or new cursing:  all this you cannot see, but only
imagine.  I say, there is not a red Indian, hunting by Lake Winnipeg, can
quarrel with his squaw, but the whole world must smart for it:  will not
the price of beaver rise?  It is a mathematical fact that the casting of
this pebble from my hand alters the centre of gravity of the Universe.

"If now an existing generation of men stand so woven together, not less
indissolubly does generation with generation.  Hast thou ever meditated on
that word, Tradition:  how we inherit not Life only, but all the garniture
and form of Life; and work, and speak, and even think and feel, as our
Fathers, and primeval grandfathers, from the beginning, have given it
us?—Who printed thee, for example, this unpretending Volume on the
Philosophy of Clothes?  Not the Herren Stillschweigen and Company; but
Cadmus of Thebes, Faust of Mentz, and innumerable others whom thou knowest
not.  Had there been no Moesogothic Ulfila, there had been no English
Shakspeare, or a different one.  Simpleton!  It was Tubal-cain that made
thy very Tailor's needle, and sewed that court-suit of thine.

"Yes, truly, if Nature is one, and a living indivisible whole, much more is
Mankind, the Image that reflects and creates Nature, without which Nature
were not.  As palpable lifestreams in that wondrous Individual Mankind,
among so many life-streams that are not palpable, flow on those main
currents of what we call Opinion; as preserved in Institutions, Polities,
Churches, above all in Books.  Beautiful it is to understand and know that
a Thought did never yet die; that as thou, the originator thereof, hast
gathered it and created it from the whole Past, so thou wilt transmit it to
the whole Future.  It is thus that the heroic heart, the seeing eye of the
first times, still feels and sees in us of the latest; that the Wise Man
stands ever encompassed, and spiritually embraced, by a cloud of witnesses
and brothers; and there is a living, literal Communion of Saints, wide as
the World itself, and as the History of the World.

"Noteworthy also, and serviceable for the progress of this same Individual,
wilt thou find his subdivision into Generations.  Generations are as the
Days of toilsome Mankind:  Death and Birth are the vesper and the matin
bells, that summon Mankind to sleep, and to rise refreshed for new
advancement.  What the Father has made, the Son can make and enjoy; but has
also work of his own appointed him.  Thus all things wax, and roll onwards;
Arts, Establishments, Opinions, nothing is completed, but ever completing.
Newton has learned to see what Kepler saw; but there is also a fresh
heaven-derived force in Newton; he must mount to still higher points of
vision.  So too the Hebrew Lawgiver is, in due time, followed by an Apostle
of the Gentiles.  In the business of Destruction, as this also is from time
to time a necessary work, thou findest a like sequence and perseverance:
for Luther it was as yet hot enough to stand by that burning of the Pope's
Bull; Voltaire could not warm himself at the glimmering ashes, but required
quite other fuel.  Thus likewise, I note, the English Whig has, in the
second generation, become an English Radical; who, in the third again, it
is to be hoped, will become an English Rebuilder.  Find Mankind where thou
wilt, thou findest it in living movement, in progress faster or slower:
the Phoenix soars aloft, hovers with outstretched wings, filling Earth with
her music; or, as now, she sinks, and with spheral swan-song immolates
herself in flame, that she may soar the higher and sing the clearer."

Let the friends of social order, in such a disastrous period, lay this to
heart, and derive from it any little comfort they can.  We subjoin another
passage, concerning Titles:—

"Remark, not without surprise," says Teufelsdrockh, "how all high Titles of
Honor come hitherto from Fighting.  Your Herzog (Duke, Dux) is Leader
of Armies; your Earl (Jarl) is Strong Man; your Marshal cavalry
Horse-shoer.  A Millennium, or reign of Peace and Wisdom, having from of
old been prophesied, and becoming now daily more and more indubitable, may
it not be apprehended that such Fighting titles will cease to be palatable,
and new and higher need to be devised?

"The only Title wherein I, with confidence, trace eternity is that of King.
Konig (King), anciently Konning, means Ken-ning (Cunning), or which is
the same thing, Can-ning.  Ever must the Sovereign of Mankind be fitly
entitled King."

"Well, also," says he elsewhere, "was it written by Theologians:  a King
rules by divine right.  He carries in him an authority from God, or man
will never give it him.  Can I choose my own King?  I can choose my own
King Popinjay, and play what farce or tragedy I may with him:  but he who
is to be my Ruler, whose will is to be higher than my will, was chosen for
me in Heaven.  Neither except in such Obedience to the Heaven-chosen is
Freedom so much as conceivable."

The Editor will here admit that, among all the wondrous provinces of
Teufelsdrockh's spiritual world, there is none he walks in with such
astonishment, hesitation, and even pain, as in the Political.  How, with
our English love of Ministry and Opposition, and that generous conflict of
Parties, mind warming itself against mind in their mutual wrestle for the
Public Good, by which wrestle, indeed, is our invaluable Constitution kept
warm and alive; how shall we domesticate ourselves in this spectral
Necropolis, or rather City both of the Dead and of the Unborn, where the
Present seems little other than an inconsiderable Film dividing the Past
and the Future?  In those dim long-drawn expanses, all is so immeasurable;
much so disastrous, ghastly; your very radiances and straggling light-beams
have a supernatural character.  And then with such an indifference, such a
prophetic peacefulness (accounting the inevitably coming as already here,
to him all one whether it be distant by centuries or only by days), does he
sit;—and live, you would say, rather in any other age than in his own!  It
is our painful duty to announce, or repeat, that, looking into this man, we
discern a deep, silent, slow-burning, inextinguishable Radicalism, such as
fills us with shuddering admiration.

Thus, for example, he appears to make little even of the Elective
Franchise; at least so we interpret the following:  "Satisfy yourselves,"
he says, "by universal, indubitable experiment, even as ye are now doing or
will do, whether FREEDOM, heaven-born and leading heavenward, and so
vitally essential for us all, cannot peradventure be mechanically hatched
and brought to light in that same Ballot-Box of yours; or at worst, in some
other discoverable or devisable Box, Edifice, or Steam-mechanism.  It were
a mighty convenience; and beyond all feats of manufacture witnessed
hitherto."  Is Teufelsdrockh acquainted with the British constitution, even
slightly?—He says, under another figure:  "But after all, were the
problem, as indeed it now everywhere is, To rebuild your old House from the
top downwards (since you must live in it the while), what better, what
other, than the Representative Machine will serve your turn?  Meanwhile,
however, mock me not with the name of Free, 'when you have but knit up my
chains into ornamental festoons.'"—Or what will any member of the Peace
Society make of such an assertion as this:  "The lower people everywhere
desire War.  Not so unwisely; there is then a demand for lower people—to
be shot!"

Gladly, therefore, do we emerge from those soul-confusing labyrinths of
speculative Radicalism, into somewhat clearer regions.  Here, looking
round, as was our hest, for "organic filaments," we ask, may not this,
touching "Hero-worship," be of the number?  It seems of a cheerful
character; yet so quaint, so mystical, one knows not what, or how little,
may lie under it.  Our readers shall look with their own eyes:—

"True is it that, in these days, man can do almost all things, only not
obey.  True likewise that whoso cannot obey cannot be free, still less bear
rule; he that is the inferior of nothing, can be the superior of nothing,
the equal of nothing.  Nevertheless, believe not that man has lost his
faculty of Reverence; that if it slumber in him, it has gone dead.  Painful
for man is that same rebellious Independence, when it has become
inevitable; only in loving companionship with his fellows does he feel
safe; only in reverently bowing down before the Higher does he feel himself

"Or what if the character of our so troublous Era lay even in this:  that
man had forever cast away Fear, which is the lower; but not yet risen into
perennial Reverence, which is the higher and highest?

"Meanwhile, observe with joy, so cunningly has Nature ordered it, that
whatsoever man ought to obey, he cannot but obey.  Before no faintest
revelation of the Godlike did he ever stand irreverent; least of all, when
the Godlike showed itself revealed in his fellow-man.  Thus is there a true
religious Loyalty forever rooted in his heart; nay in all ages, even in
ours, it manifests itself as a more or less orthodox Hero-worship.  In
which fact, that Hero-worship exists, has existed, and will forever exist,
universally among Mankind, mayest thou discern the corner-stone of living
rock, whereon all Polities for the remotest time may stand secure."

Do our readers discern any such corner-stone, or even so much as what
Teufelsdrockh, is looking at?  He exclaims, "Or hast thou forgotten Paris
and Voltaire?  How the aged, withered man, though but a Sceptic, Mocker,
and millinery Court-poet, yet because even he seemed the Wisest, Best,
could drag mankind at his chariot-wheels, so that princes coveted a smile
from him, and the loveliest of France would have laid their hair beneath
his feet!  All Paris was one vast Temple of Hero-worship; though their
Divinity, moreover, was of feature too apish.

"But if such things," continues he, "were done in the dry tree, what will
be done in the green?  If, in the most parched season of Man's History, in
the most parched spot of Europe, when Parisian life was at best but a
scientific Hortus Siccus, bedizened with some Italian Gumflowers, such
virtue could come out of it; what is to be looked for when Life again waves
leafy and bloomy, and your Hero-Divinity shall have nothing apelike, but be
wholly human?  Know that there is in man a quite indestructible Reverence
for whatsoever holds of Heaven, or even plausibly counterfeits such
holding.  Show the dullest clodpoll, show the haughtiest featherhead, that
a soul higher than himself is actually here; were his knees stiffened into
brass, he must down and worship."

Organic filaments, of a more authentic sort, mysteriously spinning
themselves, some will perhaps discover in the following passage:—

"There is no Church, sayest thou?  The voice of Prophecy has gone dumb?
This is even what I dispute:  but in any case, hast thou not still
Preaching enough?  A Preaching Friar settles himself in every village; and
builds a pulpit, which he calls Newspaper.  Therefrom he preaches what most
momentous doctrine is in him, for man's salvation; and dost not thou
listen, and believe?  Look well, thou seest everywhere a new Clergy of the
Mendicant Orders, some barefooted, some almost bare-backed, fashion itself
into shape, and teach and preach, zealously enough, for copper alms and the
love of God.  These break in pieces the ancient idols; and, though
themselves too often reprobate, as idol-breakers are wont to be, mark out
the sites of new Churches, where the true God-ordained, that are to follow,
may find audience, and minister.  Said I not, Before the old skin was shed,
the new had formed itself beneath it?"

Perhaps also in the following; wherewith we now hasten to knit up this
ravelled sleeve:—

"But there is no Religion?" reiterates the Professor.  "Fool!  I tell thee,
there is.  Hast thou well considered all that lies in this immeasurable
froth-ocean we name LITERATURE?  Fragments of a genuine Church-Homiletic
lie scattered there, which Time will assort:  nay fractions even of a
Liturgy could I point out.  And knowest thou no Prophet, even in the
vesture, environment, and dialect of this age?  None to whom the Godlike
had revealed itself, through all meanest and highest forms of the Common;
and by him been again prophetically revealed:  in whose inspired melody,
even in these rag-gathering and rag-burning days, Man's Life again begins,
were it but afar off, to be divine?  Knowest thou none such?  I know him,
and name him—Goethe.

"But thou as yet standest in no Temple; joinest in no Psalm-worship;
feelest well that, where there is no ministering Priest, the people perish?
Be of comfort!  Thou art not alone, if thou have Faith.  Spake we not of a
Communion of Saints, unseen, yet not unreal, accompanying and brother-like
embracing thee, so thou be worthy?  Their heroic Sufferings rise up
melodiously together to Heaven, out of all lands, and out of all times, as
a sacred Miserere; their heroic Actions also, as a boundless everlasting
Psalm of Triumph.  Neither say that thou hast now no Symbol of the Godlike.
Is not God's Universe a Symbol of the Godlike; is not Immensity a Temple;
is not Man's History, and Men's History, a perpetual Evangel?  Listen, and
for organ-music thou wilt ever, as of old, hear the Morning Stars sing


It is in his stupendous Section, headed Natural Supernaturalism, that the
Professor first becomes a Seer; and, after long effort, such as we have
witnessed, finally subdues under his feet this refractory
Clothes-Philosophy, and takes victorious possession thereof.  Phantasms
enough he has had to struggle with; "Cloth-webs and Cob-webs," of Imperial
Mantles, Superannuated Symbols, and what not:  yet still did he
courageously pierce through.  Nay, worst of all, two quite mysterious,
world-embracing Phantasms, TIME and SPACE, have ever hovered round him,
perplexing and bewildering:  but with these also he now resolutely
grapples, these also he victoriously rends asunder.  In a word, he has
looked fixedly on Existence, till, one after the other, its earthly hulls
and garnitures have all melted away; and now, to his rapt vision, the
interior celestial Holy-of-Holies lies disclosed.

Here, therefore, properly it is that the Philosophy of Clothes attains to
Transcendentalism; this last leap, can we but clear it, takes us safe into
the promised land, where Palingenesia, in all senses, may be considered
as beginning.  "Courage, then!" may our Diogenes exclaim, with better right
than Diogenes the First once did.  This stupendous Section we, after long
painful meditation, have found not to be unintelligible; but, on the
contrary, to grow clear, nay radiant, and all-illuminating.  Let the
reader, turning on it what utmost force of speculative intellect is in him,
do his part; as we, by judicious selection and adjustment, shall study to
do ours:—

"Deep has been, and is, the significance of Miracles," thus quietly begins
the Professor; "far deeper perhaps than we imagine.  Meanwhile, the
question of questions were:  What specially is a Miracle?  To that Dutch
King of Siam, an icicle had been a miracle; whoso had carried with him an
air-pump, and vial of vitriolic ether, might have worked a miracle.  To my
Horse, again, who unhappily is still more unscientific, do not I work a
miracle, and magical 'Open sesame!' every time I please to pay
twopence, and open for him an impassable Schlagbaum, or shut Turnpike?

"'But is not a real Miracle simply a violation of the Laws of Nature?' ask
several.  Whom I answer by this new question:  What are the Laws of Nature?
To me perhaps the rising of one from the dead were no violation of these
Laws, but a confirmation; were some far deeper Law, now first penetrated
into, and by Spiritual Force, even as the rest have all been, brought to
bear on us with its Material Force.

"Here too may some inquire, not without astonishment:  On what ground shall
one, that can make Iron swim, come and declare that therefore he can teach
Religion?  To us, truly, of the Nineteenth Century, such declaration were
inept enough; which nevertheless to our fathers, of the First Century, was
full of meaning.

"'But is it not the deepest Law of Nature that she be constant?' cries an
illuminated class:  'Is not the Machine of the Universe fixed to move by
unalterable rules?'  Probable enough, good friends:  nay I, too, must
believe that the God, whom ancient inspired men assert to be 'without
variableness or shadow of turning,' does indeed never change; that Nature,
that the Universe, which no one whom it so pleases can be prevented from
calling a Machine, does move by the most unalterable rules.  And now of
you, too, I make the old inquiry:  What those same unalterable rules,
forming the complete Statute-Book of Nature, may possibly be?

"They stand written in our Works of Science, say you; in the accumulated
records of Man's Experience?—Was Man with his Experience present at the
Creation, then, to see how it all went on?  Have any deepest scientific
individuals yet dived down to the foundations of the Universe, and gauged
everything there?  Did the Maker take them into His counsel; that they read
His ground-plan of the incomprehensible All; and can say, This stands
marked therein, and no more than this?  Alas, not in anywise!  These
scientific individuals have been nowhere but where we also are; have seen
some hand breadths deeper than we see into the Deep that is infinite,
without bottom as without shore.

"Laplace's Book on the Stars, wherein he exhibits that certain Planets,
with their Satellites, gyrate round our worthy Sun, at a rate and in a
course, which, by greatest good fortune, he and the like of him have
succeeded in detecting,—is to me as precious as to another.  But is this
what thou namest 'Mechanism of the Heavens,' and 'System of the World;'
this, wherein Sirius and the Pleiades, and all Herschel's Fifteen thousand
Suns per minute, being left out, some paltry handful of Moons, and inert
Balls, had been—looked at, nick-named, and marked in the Zodiacal
Way-bill; so that we can now prate of their Whereabout; their How, their
Why, their What, being hid from us, as in the signless Inane?

"System of Nature!  To the wisest man, wide as is his vision, Nature
remains of quite infinite depth, of quite infinite expansion; and all
Experience thereof limits itself to some few computed centuries and
measured square-miles.  The course of Nature's phases, on this our little
fraction of a Planet, is partially known to us:  but who knows what deeper
courses these depend on; what infinitely larger Cycle (of causes) our
little Epicycle revolves on?  To the Minnow every cranny and pebble, and
quality and accident, of its little native Creek may have become familiar:
but does the Minnow understand the Ocean Tides and periodic Currents, the
Trade-winds, and Monsoons, and Moon's Eclipses; by all which the condition
of its little Creek is regulated, and may, from time to time
(unmiraculously enough), be quite overset and reversed?  Such a minnow is
Man; his Creek this Planet Earth; his Ocean the immeasurable All; his
Monsoons and periodic Currents the mysterious Course of Providence through
AEons of AEons.

"We speak of the Volume of Nature:  and truly a Volume it is,—whose Author
and Writer is God.  To read it!  Dost thou, does man, so much as well know
the Alphabet thereof?  With its Words, Sentences, and grand descriptive
Pages, poetical and philosophical, spread out through Solar Systems, and
Thousands of Years, we shall not try thee.  It is a Volume written in
celestial hieroglyphs, in the true Sacred-writing; of which even Prophets
are happy that they can read here a line and there a line.  As for your
Institutes, and Academies of Science, they strive bravely; and, from amid
the thick-crowded, inextricably intertwisted hieroglyphic writing, pick
out, by dexterous combination, some Letters in the vulgar Character, and
therefrom put together this and the other economic Recipe, of high avail in
Practice.  That Nature is more than some boundless Volume of such Recipes,
or huge, well-nigh inexhaustible Domestic-Cookery Book, of which the whole
secret will in this manner one day evolve itself, the fewest dream.

"Custom," continues the Professor, "doth make dotards of us all.  Consider
well, thou wilt find that Custom is the greatest of Weavers; and weaves
air-raiment for all the Spirits of the Universe; whereby indeed these dwell
with us visibly, as ministering servants, in our houses and workshops; but
their spiritual nature becomes, to the most, forever hidden.  Philosophy
complains that Custom has hoodwinked us, from the first; that we do
everything by Custom, even Believe by it; that our very Axioms, let us
boast of Free-thinking as we may, are oftenest simply such Beliefs as we
have never heard questioned.  Nay, what is Philosophy throughout but a
continual battle against Custom; an ever-renewed effort to transcend the
sphere of blind Custom, and so become Transcendental?

"Innumerable are the illusions and legerdemain-tricks of Custom:  but of
all these, perhaps the cleverest is her knack of persuading us that the
Miraculous, by simple repetition, ceases to be Miraculous.  True, it is by
this means we live; for man must work as well as wonder:  and herein is
Custom so far a kind nurse, guiding him to his true benefit.  But she is a
fond foolish nurse, or rather we are false foolish nurslings, when, in our
resting and reflecting hours, we prolong the same deception.  Am I to view
the Stupendous with stupid indifference, because I have seen it twice, or
two hundred, or two million times?  There is no reason in Nature or in Art
why I should:  unless, indeed, I am a mere Work-Machine, for whom the
divine gift of Thought were no other than the terrestrial gift of Steam is
to the Steam-engine; a power whereby cotton might be spun, and money and
money's worth realized.

"Notable enough too, here as elsewhere, wilt thou find the potency of
Names; which indeed are but one kind of such custom-woven, wonder-hiding
Garments.  Witchcraft, and all manner of Spectre-work, and Demonology, we
have now named Madness, and Diseases of the Nerves.  Seldom reflecting that
still the new question comes upon us:  What is Madness, what are Nerves?
Ever, as before, does Madness remain a mysterious-terrific, altogether
infernal boiling-up of the Nether Chaotic Deep, through this fair-painted
Vision of Creation, which swims thereon, which we name the Real.  Was
Luther's Picture of the Devil less a Reality, whether it were formed within
the bodily eye, or without it?  In every the wisest Soul lies a whole world
of internal Madness, an authentic Demon-Empire; out of which, indeed, his
world of Wisdom has been creatively built together, and now rests there, as
on its dark foundations does a habitable flowery Earth rind.

"But deepest of all illusory Appearances, for hiding Wonder, as for many
other ends, are your two grand fundamental world-enveloping Appearances,
SPACE and TIME.  These, as spun and woven for us from before Birth itself,
to clothe our celestial ME for dwelling here, and yet to blind it,—lie
all-embracing, as the universal canvas, or warp and woof, whereby all minor
Illusions, in this Phantasm Existence, weave and paint themselves.  In
vain, while here on Earth, shall you endeavor to strip them off; you can,
at best, but rend them asunder for moments, and look through.

"Fortunatus had a wishing Hat, which when he put on, and wished himself
Anywhere, behold he was There.  By this means had Fortunatus triumphed over
Space, he had annihilated Space; for him there was no Where, but all was
Here.  Were a Hatter to establish himself, in the Wahngasse of
Weissnichtwo, and make felts of this sort for all mankind, what a world we
should have of it!  Still stranger, should, on the opposite side of the
street, another Hatter establish himself; and, as his fellow-craftsman made
Space-annihilating Hats, make Time-annihilating!  Of both would I purchase,
were it with my last groschen; but chiefly of this latter.  To clap on your
felt, and, simply by wishing that you were Anywhere, straightway to be
There!  Next to clap on your other felt, and, simply by wishing that you
were Anywhen, straightway to be Then!  This were indeed the grander:
shooting at will from the Fire-Creation of the World to its
Fire-Consummation; here historically present in the First Century,
conversing face to face with Paul and Seneca; there prophetically in the
Thirty-first, conversing also face to face with other Pauls and Senecas,
who as yet stand hidden in the depth of that late Time!

"Or thinkest thou it were impossible, unimaginable?  Is the Past
annihilated, then, or only past; is the Future non-extant, or only future?
Those mystic faculties of thine, Memory and Hope, already answer:  already
through those mystic avenues, thou the Earth-blinded summonest both Past
and Future, and communest with them, though as yet darkly, and with mute
beckonings.  The curtains of Yesterday drop down, the curtains of To-morrow
roll up; but Yesterday and To-morrow both are.  Pierce through the
Time-element, glance into the Eternal.  Believe what thou findest written
in the sanctuaries of Man's Soul, even as all Thinkers, in all ages, have
devoutly read it there:  that Time and Space are not God, but creations of
God; that with God as it is a universal HERE, so is it an everlasting Now.

"And seest thou therein any glimpse of IMMORTALITY?—O Heaven!  Is the
white Tomb of our Loved One, who died from our arms, and had to be left
behind us there, which rises in the distance, like a pale, mournfully
receding Milestone, to tell how many toilsome uncheered miles we have
journeyed on alone,—but a pale spectral Illusion!  Is the lost Friend
still mysteriously Here, even as we are Here mysteriously, with God!—know
of a truth that only the Time-shadows have perished, or are perishable;
that the real Being of whatever was, and whatever is, and whatever will be,
is even now and forever.  This, should it unhappily seem new, thou mayest
ponder at thy leisure; for the next twenty years, or the next twenty
centuries:  believe it thou must; understand it thou canst not.

"That the Thought-forms, Space and Time, wherein, once for all, we are sent
into this Earth to live, should condition and determine our whole Practical
reasonings, conceptions, and imagings or imaginings, seems altogether fit,
just, and unavoidable.  But that they should, furthermore, usurp such sway
over pure spiritual Meditation, and blind us to the wonder everywhere lying
close on us, seems nowise so.  Admit Space and Time to their due rank as
Forms of Thought; nay even, if thou wilt, to their quite undue rank of
Realities:  and consider, then, with thyself how their thin disguises hide
from us the brightest God-effulgences!  Thus, were it not miraculous, could
I stretch forth my hand and clutch the Sun?  Yet thou seest me daily
stretch forth my hand and therewith clutch many a thing, and swing it
hither and thither.  Art thou a grown baby, then, to fancy that the Miracle
lies in miles of distance, or in pounds avoirdupois of weight; and not to
see that the true inexplicable God-revealing Miracle lies in this, that I
can stretch forth my hand at all; that I have free Force to clutch aught
therewith?  Innumerable other of this sort are the deceptions, and
wonder-hiding stupefactions, which Space practices on us.

"Still worse is it with regard to Time.  Your grand anti-magician, and
universal wonder-hider, is this same lying Time.  Had we but the
Time-annihilating Hat, to put on for once only, we should see ourselves in
a World of Miracles, wherein all fabled or authentic Thaumaturgy, and feats
of Magic, were outdone.  But unhappily we have not such a Hat; and man,
poor fool that he is, can seldom and scantily help himself without one.

"Were it not wonderful, for instance, had Orpheus, or Amphion, built the
walls of Thebes by the mere sound of his Lyre?  Yet tell me, Who built
these walls of Weissnichtwo; summoning out all the sandstone rocks, to
dance along from the Steinbruch (now a huge Troglodyte Chasm, with
frightful green-mantled pools); and shape themselves into Doric and Ionic
pillars, squared ashlar houses and noble streets?  Was it not the still
higher Orpheus, or Orpheuses, who, in past centuries, by the divine Music
of Wisdom, succeeded in civilizing Man?  Our highest Orpheus walked in
Judea, eighteen hundred years ago:  his sphere-melody, flowing in wild
native tones, took captive the ravished souls of men; and, being of a truth
sphere-melody, still flows and sounds, though now with thousand-fold
accompaniments, and rich symphonies, through all our hearts; and modulates,
and divinely leads them.  Is that a wonder, which happens in two hours; and
does it cease to be wonderful if happening in two million?  Not only was
Thebes built by the music of an Orpheus; but without the music of some
inspired Orpheus was no city ever built, no work that man glories in ever

"Sweep away the Illusion of Time; glance, if thou have eyes, from the near
moving-cause to its far distant Mover:  The stroke that came transmitted
through a whole galaxy of elastic balls, was it less a stroke than if the
last ball only had been struck, and sent flying?  Oh, could I (with the
Time-annihilating Hat) transport thee direct from the Beginnings, to the
Endings, how were thy eyesight unsealed, and thy heart set flaming in the
Light-sea of celestial wonder!  Then sawest thou that this fair Universe,
were it in the meanest province thereof, is in very deed the star-domed
City of God; that through every star, through every grass-blade, and most
through every Living Soul, the glory of a present God still beams.  But
Nature, which is the Time-vesture of God, and reveals Him to the wise,
hides Him from the foolish.

"Again, could anything be more miraculous than an actual authentic Ghost?
The English Johnson longed, all his life, to see one; but could not, though
he went to Cock Lane, and thence to the church-vaults, and tapped on
coffins.  Foolish Doctor!  Did he never, with the mind's eye as well as
with the body's, look round him into that full tide of human Life he so
loved; did he never so much as look into Himself?  The good Doctor was a
Ghost, as actual and authentic as heart could wish; well-nigh a million of
Ghosts were travelling the streets by his side.  Once more I say, sweep
away the illusion of Time; compress the threescore years into three
minutes:  what else was he, what else are we?  Are we not Spirits, that are
shaped into a body, into an Appearance; and that fade away again into air
and Invisibility?  This is no metaphor, it is a simple scientific fact:
we start out of Nothingness, take figure, and are Apparitions; round us, as
round the veriest spectre, is Eternity; and to Eternity minutes are as
years and aeons.  Come there not tones of Love and Faith, as from celestial
harp-strings, like the Song of beatified Souls?  And again, do not we
squeak and gibber (in our discordant, screech-owlish debatings and
recriminatings); and glide bodeful, and feeble, and fearful; or uproar
(poltern), and revel in our mad Dance of the Dead,—till the scent of the
morning air summons us to our still Home; and dreamy Night becomes awake
and Day?  Where now is Alexander of Macedon:  does the steel Host, that
yelled in fierce battle-shouts at Issus and Arbela, remain behind him; or
have they all vanished utterly, even as perturbed Goblins must?  Napoleon
too, and his Moscow Retreats and Austerlitz Campaigns!  Was it all other
than the veriest Spectre-hunt; which has now, with its howling tumult that
made Night hideous, flitted away?— Ghosts!  There are nigh a thousand
million walking the Earth openly at noontide; some half-hundred have
vanished from it, some half-hundred have arisen in it, ere thy watch ticks

"O Heaven, it is mysterious, it is awful to consider that we not only carry
each a future Ghost within him; but are, in very deed, Ghosts!  These
Limbs, whence had we them; this stormy Force; this life-blood with its
burning Passion?  They are dust and shadow; a Shadow-system gathered round
our ME:  wherein, through some moments or years, the Divine Essence is to
be revealed in the Flesh.  That warrior on his strong war-horse, fire
flashes through his eyes; force dwells in his arm and heart:  but warrior
and war-horse are a vision; a revealed Force, nothing more.  Stately they
tread the Earth, as if it were a firm substance:  fool! the Earth is but a
film; it cracks in twain, and warrior and war-horse sink beyond plummet's
sounding.  Plummet's?  Fantasy herself will not follow them.  A little
while ago, they were not; a little while, and they are not, their very
ashes are not.

"So has it been from the beginning, so will it be to the end.  Generation
after generation takes to itself the Form of a Body; and forth issuing from
Cimmerian Night, on Heaven's mission APPEARS.  What Force and Fire is in
each he expends:  one grinding in the mill of Industry; one hunter-like
climbing the giddy Alpine heights of Science; one madly dashed in pieces on
the rocks of Strife, in war with his fellow:—and then the Heaven-sent is
recalled; his earthly Vesture falls away, and soon even to Sense becomes a
vanished Shadow.  Thus, like some wild-flaming, wild-thundering train of
Heaven's Artillery, does this mysterious MANKIND thunder and flame, in
long-drawn, quick-succeeding grandeur, through the unknown Deep.  Thus,
like a God-created, fire-breathing Spirit-host, we emerge from the Inane;
haste stormfully across the astonished Earth; then plunge again into the
Inane.  Earth's mountains are levelled, and her seas filled up, in our
passage:  can the Earth, which is but dead and a vision, resist Spirits
which have reality and are alive?  On the hardest adamant some footprint of
us is stamped in; the last Rear of the host will read traces of the
earliest Van.  But whence?—O Heaven whither?  Sense knows not; Faith knows
not; only that it is through Mystery to Mystery, from God and to God.

                        'We are such stuff
     As Dreams are made of, and our little Life
     Is rounded with a sleep!'"


Here, then, arises the so momentous question:  Have many British Readers
actually arrived with us at the new promised country; is the Philosophy of
Clothes now at last opening around them?  Long and adventurous has the
journey been:  from those outmost vulgar, palpable Woollen Hulls of Man;
through his wondrous Flesh-Garments, and his wondrous Social Garnitures;
inwards to the Garments of his very Soul's Soul, to Time and Space
themselves!  And now does the spiritual, eternal Essence of Man, and of
Mankind, bared of such wrappages, begin in any measure to reveal itself?
Can many readers discern, as through a glass darkly, in huge wavering
outlines, some primeval rudiments of Man's Being, what is changeable
divided from what is unchangeable?  Does that Earth-Spirit's speech in

     "'Tis thus at the roaring Loom of Time I ply,
     And weave for God the Garment thou seest Him by; "

or that other thousand-times repeated speech of the Magician,

     "And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
     The cloud-capt Towers, the gorgeous Palaces,
     The solemn Temples, the great Globe itself,
     And all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
     And like this unsubstantial pageant faded,
     Leave not a wrack behind;"

begin to have some meaning for us?  In a word, do we at length stand safe
in the far region of Poetic Creation and Palingenesia, where that Phoenix
Death-Birth of Human Society, and of all Human Things, appears possible, is
seen to be inevitable?

Along this most insufficient, unheard-of Bridge, which the Editor, by
Heaven's blessing, has now seen himself enabled to conclude if not
complete, it cannot be his sober calculation, but only his fond hope, that
many have travelled without accident.  No firm arch, overspanning the
Impassable with paved highway, could the Editor construct; only, as was
said, some zigzag series of rafts floating tumultuously thereon.  Alas, and
the leaps from raft to raft were too often of a breakneck character; the
darkness, the nature of the element, all was against us!

Nevertheless, may not here and there one of a thousand, provided with a
discursiveness of intellect rare in our day, have cleared the passage, in
spite of all?  Happy few! little band of Friends! be welcome, be of
courage.  By degrees, the eye grows accustomed to its new Whereabout; the
hand can stretch itself forth to work there:  it is in this grand and
indeed highest work of Palingenesia that ye shall labor, each according to
ability.  New laborers will arrive; new Bridges will be built; nay, may not
our own poor rope-and-raft Bridge, in your passings and repassings, be
mended in many a point, till it grow quite firm, passable even for the

Meanwhile, of the innumerable multitude that started with us, joyous and
full of hope, where now is the innumerable remainder, whom we see no longer
by our side?  The most have recoiled, and stand gazing afar off, in
unsympathetic astonishment, at our career:  not a few, pressing forward
with more courage, have missed footing, or leaped short; and now swim
weltering in the Chaos-flood, some towards this shore, some towards that.
To these also a helping hand should be held out; at least some word of
encouragement be said.

Or, to speak without metaphor, with which mode of utterance Teufelsdrockh
unhappily has somewhat infected us,— can it be hidden from the Editor that
many a British Reader sits reading quite bewildered in head, and afflicted
rather than instructed by the present Work?  Yes, long ago has many a
British Reader been, as now, demanding with something like a snarl:
Whereto does all this lead; or what use is in it?

In the way of replenishing thy purse, or otherwise aiding thy digestive
faculty, O British Reader, it leads to nothing, and there is no use in it;
but rather the reverse, for it costs thee somewhat.  Nevertheless, if
through this unpromising Horn-gate, Teufelsdrockh, and we by means of him,
have led thee into the true Land of Dreams; and through the Clothes-Screen,
as through a magical Pierre-Pertuis, thou lookest, even for moments, into
the region of the Wonderful, and seest and feelest that thy daily life is
girt with Wonder, and based on Wonder, and thy very blankets and breeches
are Miracles,— then art thou profited beyond money's worth; and hast a
thankfulness towards our Professor; nay, perhaps in many a literary
Tea-circle wilt open thy kind lips, and audibly express that same.

Nay farther, art not thou too perhaps by this time made aware that all
Symbols are properly Clothes; that all Forms whereby Spirit manifests
itself to sense, whether outwardly or in the imagination, are Clothes; and
thus not only the parchment Magna Charta, which a Tailor was nigh cutting
into measures, but the Pomp and Authority of Law, the sacredness of
Majesty, and all inferior Worships (Worth-ships) are properly a Vesture and
Raiment; and the Thirty-nine Articles themselves are articles of
wearing-apparel (for the Religious Idea)?  In which case, must it not also
be admitted that this Science of Clothes is a high one, and may with
infinitely deeper study on thy part yield richer fruit:  that it takes
scientific rank beside Codification, and Political Economy, and the Theory
of the British Constitution; nay rather, from its prophetic height looks
down on all these, as on so many weaving-shops and spinning-mills, where
the Vestures which it has to fashion, and consecrate, and distribute,
are, too often by haggard hungry operatives who see no farther than their
nose, mechanically woven and spun?

But omitting all this, much more all that concerns Natural Supernaturalism,
and indeed whatever has reference to the Ulterior or Transcendental portion
of the Science, or bears never so remotely on that promised Volume of the
Palingenesie der menschlichen Gesellschaft (Newbirth of Society),—we
humbly suggest that no province of Clothes-Philosophy, even the lowest, is
without its direct value, but that innumerable inferences of a practical
nature may be drawn therefrom.  To say nothing of those pregnant
considerations, ethical, political, symbolical, which crowd on the
Clothes-Philosopher from the very threshold of his Science; nothing even of
those "architectural ideas," which, as we have seen, lurk at the bottom of
all Modes, and will one day, better unfolding themselves, lead to important
revolutions,—let us glance for a moment, and with the faintest light of
Clothes-Philosophy, on what may be called the Habilatory Class of our
fellow-men.  Here too overlooking, where so much were to be looked on, the
million spinners, weavers, fullers, dyers, washers, and wringers, that
puddle and muddle in their dark recesses, to make us Clothes, and die that
we may live,—let us but turn the reader's attention upon two small
divisions of mankind, who, like moths, may be regarded as Cloth-animals,
creatures that live, move and have their being in Cloth:  we mean, Dandies
and Tailors.

In regard to both which small divisions it may be asserted without scruple,
that the public feeling, unenlightened by Philosophy, is at fault; and even
that the dictates of humanity are violated.  As will perhaps abundantly
appear to readers of the two following Chapters.


First, touching Dandies, let us consider, with some scientific strictness,
what a Dandy specially is.  A Dandy is a Clothes-wearing Man, a Man whose
trade, office and existence consists in the wearing of Clothes.  Every
faculty of his soul, spirit, purse and person is heroically consecrated to
this one object, the wearing of Clothes wisely and well:  so that as others
dress to live, he lives to dress.  The all-importance of Clothes, which a
German Professor, of unequalled learning and acumen, writes his enormous
Volume to demonstrate, has sprung up in the intellect of the Dandy without
effort, like an instinct of genius; he is inspired with Cloth, a Poet of
Cloth.  What Teufelsdrockh would call a "Divine Idea of Cloth" is born with
him; and this, like other such Ideas, will express itself outwardly, or
wring his heart asunder with unutterable throes.

But, like a generous, creative enthusiast, he fearlessly makes his Idea an
Action; shows himself in peculiar guise to mankind; walks forth, a witness
and living Martyr to the eternal worth of Clothes.  We called him a Poet:
is not his body the (stuffed) parchment-skin whereon he writes, with
cunning Huddersfield dyes, a Sonnet to his mistress' eyebrow?  Say, rather,
an Epos, and Clotha Virumque cano, to the whole world, in Macaronic
verses, which he that runs may read.  Nay, if you grant, what seems to be
admissible, that the Dandy has a Thinking-principle in him, and some
notions of Time and Space, is there not in this life-devotedness to Cloth,
in this so willing sacrifice of the Immortal to the Perishable, something
(though in reverse order) of that blending and identification of Eternity
with Time, which, as we have seen, constitutes the Prophetic character?

And now, for all this perennial Martyrdom, and Poesy, and even Prophecy,
what is it that the Dandy asks in return?  Solely, we may say, that you
would recognize his existence; would admit him to be a living object; or
even failing this, a visual object, or thing that will reflect rays of
light.  Your silver or your gold (beyond what the niggardly Law has already
secured him) he solicits not; simply the glance of your eyes.  Understand
his mystic significance, or altogether miss and misinterpret it; do but
look at him, and he is contented.  May we not well cry shame on an
ungrateful world, which refuses even this poor boon; which will waste its
optic faculty on dried Crocodiles, and Siamese Twins; and over the domestic
wonderful wonder of wonders, a live Dandy, glance with hasty indifference,
and a scarcely concealed contempt!  Him no Zoologist classes among the
Mammalia, no Anatomist dissects with care:  when did we see any injected
Preparation of the Dandy in our Museums; any specimen of him preserved in
spirits!  Lord Herringbone may dress himself in a snuff-brown suit, with
snuff-brown shirt and shoes:  it skills not; the undiscerning public,
occupied with grosser wants, passes by regardless on the other side.

The age of Curiosity, like that of Chivalry, is indeed, properly speaking,
gone.  Yet perhaps only gone to sleep:  for here arises the
Clothes-Philosophy to resuscitate, strangely enough, both the one and the
other!  Should sound views of this Science come to prevail, the essential
nature of the British Dandy, and the mystic significance that lies in him,
cannot always remain hidden under laughable and lamentable hallucination.
The following long Extract from Professor Teufelsdrockh may set the matter,
if not in its true light, yet in the way towards such.  It is to be
regretted, however, that here, as so often elsewhere, the Professor's keen
philosophic perspicacity is somewhat marred by a certain mixture of almost
owlish purblindness, or else of some perverse, ineffectual, ironic
tendency; our readers shall judge which:—

"In these distracted times," writes he, "when the Religious Principle,
driven out of most Churches, either lies unseen in the hearts of good men,
looking and longing and silently working there towards some new Revelation;
or else wanders homeless over the world, like a disembodied soul seeking
its terrestrial organization,—into how many strange shapes, of
Superstition and Fanaticism, does it not tentatively and errantly cast
itself!  The higher Enthusiasm of man's nature is for the while without
Exponent; yet does it continue indestructible, unweariedly active, and work
blindly in the great chaotic deep:  thus Sect after Sect, and Church after
Church, bodies itself forth, and melts again into new metamorphosis.

"Chiefly is this observable in England, which, as the wealthiest and
worst-instructed of European nations, offers precisely the elements (of
Heat, namely, and of Darkness), in which such moon-calves and monstrosities
are best generated.  Among the newer Sects of that country, one of the most
notable, and closely connected with our present subject, is that of the
Dandies; concerning which, what little information I have been able to
procure may fitly stand here.

"It is true, certain of the English Journalists, men generally without
sense for the Religious Principle, or judgment for its manifestations,
speak, in their brief enigmatic notices, as if this were perhaps rather a
Secular Sect, and not a Religious one; nevertheless, to the psychologic eye
its devotional and even sacrificial character plainly enough reveals
itself.  Whether it belongs to the class of Fetish-worships, or of
Hero-worships or Polytheisms, or to what other class, may in the present
state of our intelligence remain undecided (schweben).  A certain touch
of Manicheism, not indeed in the Gnostic shape, is discernible enough; also
(for human Error walks in a cycle, and reappears at intervals) a
not-inconsiderable resemblance to that Superstition of the Athos Monks, who
by fasting from all nourishment, and looking intensely for a length of time
into their own navels, came to discern therein the true Apocalypse of
Nature, and Heaven Unveiled.  To my own surmise, it appears as if this
Dandiacal Sect were but a new modification, adapted to the new time, of
that primeval Superstition, Self-worship; which Zerdusht, Quangfoutchee,
Mahomet, and others, strove rather to subordinate and restrain than to
eradicate; and which only in the purer forms of Religion has been
altogether rejected.  Wherefore, if any one chooses to name it revived
Ahrimanism, or a new figure of Demon-Worship, I have, so far as is yet
visible, no objection.

"For the rest, these people, animated with the zeal of a new Sect, display
courage and perseverance, and what force there is in man's nature, though
never so enslaved.  They affect great purity and separatism; distinguish
themselves by a particular costume (whereof some notices were given in the
earlier part of this Volume); likewise, so far as possible, by a particular
speech (apparently some broken Lingua-franca, or English-French); and, on
the whole, strive to maintain a true Nazarene deportment, and keep
themselves unspotted from the world.

"They have their Temples, whereof the chief, as the Jewish Temple did,
stands in their metropolis; and is named Almack's, a word of uncertain
etymology.  They worship principally by night; and have their High-priests
and High-priestesses, who, however, do not continue for life.  The rites,
by some supposed to be of the Menadic sort, or perhaps with an Eleusinian
or Cabiric character, are held strictly secret.  Nor are Sacred Books
wanting to the Sect; these they call Fashionable Novels:  however, the
Canon is not completed, and some are canonical and others not.

"Of such Sacred Books I, not without expense, procured myself some samples;
and in hope of true insight, and with the zeal which beseems an Inquirer
into Clothes, set to interpret and study them.  But wholly to no purpose:
that tough faculty of reading, for which the world will not refuse me
credit, was here for the first time foiled and set at naught.  In vain that
I summoned my whole energies (mich weidlich anstrengte), and did my very
utmost; at the end of some short space, I was uniformly seized with not so
much what I can call a drumming in my ears, as a kind of infinite,
unsufferable, Jew's-harping and scrannel-piping there; to which the
frightfullest species of Magnetic Sleep soon supervened.  And if I strove
to shake this away, and absolutely would not yield, there came a hitherto
unfelt sensation, as of Delirium Tremens, and a melting into total
deliquium:  till at last, by order of the Doctor, dreading ruin to my whole
intellectual and bodily faculties, and a general breaking up of the
constitution, I reluctantly but determinedly forbore.  Was there some
miracle at work here; like those Fire-balls, and supernal and infernal
prodigies, which, in the case of the Jewish Mysteries, have also more than
once scared back the Alien?  Be this as it may, such failure on my part,
after best efforts, must excuse the imperfection of this sketch; altogether
incomplete, yet the completest I could give of a Sect too singular to be

"Loving my own life and senses as I do, no power shall induce me, as a
private individual, to open another Fashionable Novel.  But luckily, in
this dilemma, comes a hand from the clouds; whereby if not victory,
deliverance is held out to me.  Round one of those Book-packages, which the
Stillschweigen'sche Buchhandlung is in the habit of importing from
England, come, as is usual, various waste printed-sheets
(Maculatur-blatter), by way of interior wrappage:  into these the
Clothes-Philosopher, with a certain Mahometan reverence even for
waste-paper, where curious knowledge will sometimes hover, disdains not to
cast his eye.  Readers may judge of his astonishment when on such a defaced
stray-sheet, probably the outcast fraction of some English Periodical, such
as they name Magazine, appears something like a Dissertation on this very
subject of Fashionable Novels!  It sets out, indeed, chiefly from a
Secular point of view; directing itself, not without asperity, against some
to me unknown individual named Pelham, who seems to be a Mystagogue, and
leading Teacher and Preacher of the Sect; so that, what indeed otherwise
was not to be expected in such a fugitive fragmentary sheet, the true
secret, the Religious physiognomy and physiology of the Dandiacal Body, is
nowise laid fully open there.  Nevertheless, scattered lights do from time
to time sparkle out, whereby I have endeavored to profit.  Nay, in one
passage selected from the Prophecies, or Mythic Theogonies, or whatever
they are (for the style seems very mixed) of this Mystagogue, I find what
appears to be a Confession of Faith, or Whole Duty of Man, according to the
tenets of that Sect.  Which Confession or Whole Duty, therefore, as
proceeding from a source so authentic, I shall here arrange under Seven
distinct Articles, and in very abridged shape lay before the German world;
therewith taking leave of this matter.  Observe also, that to avoid
possibility of error, I, as far as may be, quote literally from the


'1.  Coats should have nothing of the triangle about them; at the same
time, wrinkles behind should be carefully avoided.

'2.  The collar is a very important point:  it should be low behind, and
slightly rolled.

'3.  No license of fashion can allow a man of delicate taste to adopt the
posterial luxuriance of a Hottentot.

'4.  There is safety in a swallow-tail.

'5.  The good sense of a gentleman is nowhere more finely developed than in
his rings.

'6.  It is permitted to mankind, under certain restrictions, to wear white

'7.  The trousers must be exceedingly tight across the hips.'

"All which Propositions I, for the present, content myself with modestly
but peremptorily and irrevocably denying.

"In strange contrast with this Dandiacal Body stands another British Sect,
originally, as I understand, of Ireland, where its chief seat still is; but
known also in the main Island, and indeed everywhere rapidly spreading.  As
this Sect has hitherto emitted no Canonical Books, it remains to me in the
same state of obscurity as the Dandiacal, which has published Books that
the unassisted human faculties are inadequate to read.  The members appear
to be designated by a considerable diversity of names, according to their
various places of establishment:  in England they are generally called the
Drudge Sect; also, unphilosophically enough, the White Negroes; and,
chiefly in scorn by those of other communions, the Ragged-Beggar Sect.
In Scotland, again, I find them entitled Hallanshakers, or the Stook of
Duds Sect; any individual communicant is named Stook of Duds (that is,
Shock of Rags), in allusion, doubtless, to their professional Costume.
While in Ireland, which, as mentioned, is their grand parent hive, they go
by a perplexing multiplicity of designations, such as Bogtrotters,
Redshanks, Ribbonmen, Cottiers, Peep-of-Day Boys, Babes of the Wood,
Rockites, Poor-Slaves:  which last, however, seems to be the primary and
generic name; whereto, probably enough, the others are only subsidiary
species, or slight varieties; or, at most, propagated offsets from the
parent stem, whose minute subdivisions, and shades of difference, it were
here loss of time to dwell on.  Enough for us to understand, what seems
indubitable, that the original Sect is that of the Poor-Slaves; whose
doctrines, practices, and fundamental characteristics pervade and animate
the whole Body, howsoever denominated or outwardly diversified.

"The precise speculative tenets of this Brotherhood:  how the Universe, and
Man, and Man's Life, picture themselves to the mind of an Irish Poor-Slave;
with what feelings and opinions he looks forward on the Future, round on
the Present, back on the Past, it were extremely difficult to specify.
Something Monastic there appears to be in their Constitution:  we find them
bound by the two Monastic Vows, of Poverty and Obedience; which vows,
especially the former, it is said, they observe with great strictness; nay,
as I have understood it, they are pledged, and be it by any solemn Nazarene
ordination or not, irrevocably consecrated thereto, even before birth.
That the third Monastic Vow, of Chastity, is rigidly enforced among them, I
find no ground to conjecture.

"Furthermore, they appear to imitate the Dandiacal Sect in their grand
principle of wearing a peculiar Costume.  Of which Irish Poor-Slave Costume
no description will indeed be found in the present Volume; for this reason,
that by the imperfect organ of Language it did not seem describable.  Their
raiment consists of innumerable skirts, lappets and irregular wings, of all
cloths and of all colors; through the labyrinthic intricacies of which
their bodies are introduced by some unknown process.  It is fastened
together by a multiplex combination of buttons, thrums and skewers; to
which frequently is added a girdle of leather, of hempen or even of straw
rope, round the loins.  To straw rope, indeed, they seem partial, and often
wear it by way of sandals.  In head-dress they affect a certain freedom:
hats with partial brim, without crown, or with only a loose, hinged, or
valve crown; in the former case, they sometimes invert the hat, and wear it
brim uppermost, like a university-cap, with what view is unknown.

"The name Poor-Slaves seems to indicate a Slavonic, Polish, or Russian
origin:  not so, however, the interior essence and spirit of their
Superstition, which rather displays a Teutonic or Druidical character.  One
might fancy them worshippers of Hertha, or the Earth:  for they dig and
affectionately work continually in her bosom; or else, shut up in private
Oratories, meditate and manipulate the substances derived from her; seldom
looking up towards the Heavenly Luminaries, and then with comparative
indifference.  Like the Druids, on the other hand, they live in dark
dwellings; often even breaking their glass windows, where they find such,
and stuffing them up with pieces of raiment, or other opaque substances,
till the fit obscurity is restored.  Again, like all followers of
Nature-Worship, they are liable to out-breakings of an enthusiasm rising to
ferocity; and burn men, if not in wicker idols, yet in sod cottages.

"In respect of diet, they have also their observances.  All Poor-Slaves are
Rhizophagous (or Root-eaters); a few are Ichthyophagous, and use Salted
Herrings:  other animal food they abstain from; except indeed, with perhaps
some strange inverted fragment of a Brahminical feeling, such animals as
die a natural death.  Their universal sustenance is the root named Potato,
cooked by fire alone; and generally without condiment or relish of any
kind, save an unknown condiment named Point, into the meaning of which I
have vainly inquired; the victual Potatoes-and-Point not appearing, at
least not with specific accuracy of description, in any European
Cookery-Book whatever.  For drink, they use, with an almost epigrammatic
counterpoise of taste, Milk, which is the mildest of liquors, and
Potheen, which is the fiercest.  This latter I have tasted, as well as
the English Blue-Ruin, and the Scotch Whiskey, analogous fluids used by
the Sect in those countries:  it evidently contains some form of alcohol,
in the highest state of concentration, though disguised with acrid oils;
and is, on the whole, the most pungent substance known to me,—indeed, a
perfect liquid fire.  In all their Religious Solemnities, Potheen is said
to be an indispensable requisite, and largely consumed.

"An Irish Traveller, of perhaps common veracity, who presents himself under
the to me unmeaning title of The late John Bernard, offers the following
sketch of a domestic establishment, the inmates whereof, though such is not
stated expressly, appear to have been of that Faith.  Thereby shall my
German readers now behold an Irish Poor-Slave, as it were with their own
eyes; and even see him at meat.  Moreover, in the so precious waste-paper
sheet above mentioned, I have found some corresponding picture of a
Dandiacal Household, painted by that same Dandiacal Mystagogue, or
Theogonist:  this also, by way of counterpart and contrast, the world shall
look into.

"First, therefore, of the Poor-Slave, who appears likewise to have been a
species of Innkeeper.  I quote from the original:


"'The furniture of this Caravansera consisted of a large iron Pot, two
oaken Tables, two Benches, two Chairs, and a Potheen Noggin.  There was a
Loft above (attainable by a ladder), upon which the inmates slept; and the
space below was divided by a hurdle into two Apartments; the one for their
cow and pig, the other for themselves and guests.  On entering the house we
discovered the family, eleven in number, at dinner:  the father sitting at
the top, the mother at the bottom, the children on each side, of a large
oaken Board, which was scooped out in the middle, like a trough, to receive
the contents of their Pot of Potatoes.  Little holes were cut at equal
distances to contain Salt; and a bowl of Milk stood on the table:  all the
luxuries of meat and beer, bread, knives and dishes were dispensed with.'
The Poor-Slave himself our Traveller found, as he says, broad-backed,
black-browed, of great personal strength, and mouth from ear to ear.  His
Wife was a sun-browned but well-featured woman; and his young ones, bare
and chubby, had the appetite of ravens.  Of their Philosophical or
Religious tenets or observances, no notice or hint.

"But now, secondly, of the Dandiacal Household; in which, truly, that
often-mentioned Mystagogue and inspired Penman himself has his abode:—


"'A Dressing-room splendidly furnished; violet-colored curtains, chairs and
ottomans of the same hue.  Two full-length Mirrors are placed, one on each
side of a table, which supports the luxuries of the Toilet.  Several
Bottles of Perfumes, arranged in a peculiar fashion, stand upon a smaller
table of mother-of-pearl:  opposite to these are placed the appurtenances
of Lavation richly wrought in frosted silver.  A Wardrobe of Buhl is on the
left; the doors of which, being partly open, discover a profusion of
Clothes; Shoes of a singularly small size monopolize the lower shelves.
Fronting the wardrobe a door ajar gives some slight glimpse of a Bath-room.
Folding-doors in the background.—Enter the Author,' our Theogonist in
person, 'obsequiously preceded by a French Valet, in white silk Jacket and
cambric Apron.'

"Such are the two Sects which, at this moment, divide the more unsettled
portion of the British People; and agitate that ever-vexed country.  To the
eye of the political Seer, their mutual relation, pregnant with the
elements of discord and hostility, is far from consoling.  These two
principles of Dandiacal Self-worship or Demon-worship, and Poor-Slavish or
Drudgical Earth-worship, or whatever that same Drudgism may be, do as yet
indeed manifest themselves under distant and nowise considerable shapes:
nevertheless, in their roots and subterranean ramifications, they extend
through the entire structure of Society, and work unweariedly in the secret
depths of English national Existence; striving to separate and isolate it
into two contradictory, uncommunicating masses.

"In numbers, and even individual strength, the Poor-Slaves or Drudges, it
would seem, are hourly increasing.  The Dandiacal, again, is by nature no
proselytizing Sect; but it boasts of great hereditary resources, and is
strong by union; whereas the Drudges, split into parties, have as yet no
rallying-point; or at best only co-operate by means of partial secret
affiliations.  If, indeed, there were to arise a Communion of Drudges, as
there is already a Communion of Saints, what strangest effects would follow
therefrom!  Dandyism as yet affects to look down on Drudgism:  but perhaps
the hour of trial, when it will be practically seen which ought to look
down, and which up, is not so distant.

"To me it seems probable that the two Sects will one day part England
between them; each recruiting itself from the intermediate ranks, till
there be none left to enlist on either side.  Those Dandiacal Manicheans,
with the host of Dandyizing Christians, will form one body:  the Drudges,
gathering round them whosoever is Drudgical, be he Christian or Infidel
Pagan; sweeping up likewise all manner of Utilitarians, Radicals,
refractory Pot-wallopers, and so forth, into their general mass, will form
another.  I could liken Dandyism and Drudgism to two bottomless boiling
Whirlpools that had broken out on opposite quarters of the firm land:  as
yet they appear only disquieted, foolishly bubbling wells, which man's art
might cover in; yet mark them, their diameter is daily widening:  they are
hollow Cones that boil up from the infinite Deep, over which your firm land
is but a thin crust or rind!  Thus daily is the intermediate land crumbling
in, daily the empire of the two Buchan-Bullers extending; till now there is
but a foot-plank, a mere film of Land between them; this too is washed
away:  and then—we have the true Hell of Waters, and Noah's Deluge is

"Or better, I might call them two boundless, and indeed unexampled Electric
Machines (turned by the 'Machinery of Society'), with batteries of opposite
quality; Drudgism the Negative, Dandyism the Positive; one attracts hourly
towards it and appropriates all the Positive Electricity of the nation
(namely, the Money thereof); the other is equally busy with the Negative
(that is to say the Hunger), which is equally potent.  Hitherto you see
only partial transient sparkles and sputters:  but wait a little, till the
entire nation is in an electric state:  till your whole vital Electricity,
no longer healthfully Neutral, is cut into two isolated portions of
Positive and Negative (of Money and of Hunger); and stands there bottled up
in two World-Batteries!  The stirring of a child's finger brings the two
together; and then—What then?  The Earth is but shivered into impalpable
smoke by that Doom's thunder-peal; the Sun misses one of his Planets in
Space, and thenceforth there are no eclipses of the Moon.—Or better still,
I might liken"—

Oh, enough, enough of likenings and similitudes; in excess of which, truly,
it is hard to say whether Teufelsdrockh or ourselves sin the more.

We have often blamed him for a habit of wire-drawing and over-refining;
from of old we have been familiar with his tendency to Mysticism and
Religiosity, whereby in everything he was still scenting out Religion:  but
never perhaps did these amaurosis-suffusions so cloud and distort his
otherwise most piercing vision, as in this of the Dandiacal Body!  Or was
there something of intended satire; is the Professor and Seer not quite the
blinkard he affects to be?  Of an ordinary mortal we should have decisively
answered in the affirmative; but with a Teufelsdrockh there ever hovers
some shade of doubt.  In the mean while, if satire were actually intended,
the case is little better.  There are not wanting men who will answer:
Does your Professor take us for simpletons?  His irony has overshot itself;
we see through it, and perhaps through him.


Thus, however, has our first Practical Inference from the
Clothes-Philosophy, that which respects Dandies, been sufficiently drawn;
and we come now to the second, concerning Tailors.  On this latter our
opinion happily quite coincides with that of Teufelsdrockh himself, as
expressed in the concluding page of his Volume, to whom, therefore, we
willingly give place.  Let him speak his own last words, in his own way:—

"Upwards of a century," says he, "must elapse, and still the bleeding fight
of Freedom be fought, whoso is noblest perishing in the van, and thrones be
hurled on altars like Pelion on Ossa, and the Moloch of Iniquity have his
victims, and the Michael of Justice his martyrs, before Tailors can be
admitted to their true prerogatives of manhood, and this last wound of
suffering Humanity be closed.

"If aught in the history of the world's blindness could surprise us, here
might we indeed pause and wonder.  An idea has gone abroad, and fixed
itself down into a wide-spreading rooted error, that Tailors are a distinct
species in Physiology, not Men, but fractional Parts of a Man.  Call any
one a Schneider (Cutter, Tailor), is it not, in our dislocated,
hoodwinked, and indeed delirious condition of Society, equivalent to
defying his perpetual fellest enmity?  The epithet schneidermassig
(tailor-like) betokens an otherwise unapproachable degree of pusillanimity;
we introduce a Tailor's-Melancholy, more opprobrious than any Leprosy,
into our Books of Medicine; and fable I know not what of his generating it
by living on Cabbage.  Why should I speak of Hans Sachs (himself a
Shoemaker, or kind of Leather-Tailor), with his Schneider mit dem Panier?
Why of Shakspeare, in his Taming of the Shrew, and elsewhere?  Does it
not stand on record that the English Queen Elizabeth, receiving a
deputation of Eighteen Tailors, addressed them with a 'Good morning,
gentlemen both!'  Did not the same virago boast that she had a Cavalry
Regiment, whereof neither horse nor man could be injured; her Regiment,
namely, of Tailors on Mares?  Thus everywhere is the falsehood taken for
granted, and acted on as an indisputable fact.

"Nevertheless, need I put the question to any Physiologist, whether it is
disputable or not?  Seems it not at least presumable, that, under his
Clothes, the Tailor has bones and viscera, and other muscles than the
sartorius?  Which function of manhood is the Tailor not conjectured to
perform?  Can he not arrest for debt?  Is he not in most countries a
taxpaying animal?

"To no reader of this Volume can it be doubtful which conviction is mine.
Nay if the fruit of these long vigils, and almost preternatural Inquiries,
is not to perish utterly, the world will have approximated towards a higher
Truth; and the doctrine, which Swift, with the keen forecast of genius,
dimly anticipated, will stand revealed in clear light:  that the Tailor is
not only a Man, but something of a Creator or Divinity.  Of Franklin it was
said, that 'he snatched the Thunder from Heaven and the Sceptre from
Kings:'  but which is greater, I would ask, he that lends, or he that
snatches?  For, looking away from individual cases, and how a Man is by the
Tailor new-created into a Nobleman, and clothed not only with Wool but with
Dignity and a Mystic Dominion,—is not the fair fabric of Society itself,
with all its royal mantles and pontifical stoles, whereby, from nakedness
and dismemberment, we are organized into Polities, into nations, and a
whole co-operating Mankind, the creation, as has here been often
irrefragably evinced, of the Tailor alone?—What too are all Poets and
moral Teachers, but a species of Metaphorical Tailors?  Touching which high
Guild the greatest living Guild-brother has triumphantly asked us:  'Nay if
thou wilt have it, who but the Poet first made Gods for men; brought them
down to us; and raised us up to them?'

"And this is he, whom sitting downcast, on the hard basis of his Shopboard,
the world treats with contumely, as the ninth part of a man!  Look up, thou
much-injured one, look up with the kindling eye of hope, and prophetic
bodings of a noble better time.  Too long hast thou sat there, on crossed
legs, wearing thy ankle-joints to horn; like some sacred Anchorite, or
Catholic Fakir, doing penance, drawing down Heaven's richest blessings, for
a world that scoffed at thee.  Be of hope!  Already streaks of blue peer
through our clouds; the thick gloom of Ignorance is rolling asunder, and it
will be Day.  Mankind will repay with interest their long-accumulated debt:
the Anchorite that was scoffed at will be worshipped; the Fraction will
become not an Integer only, but a Square and Cube.  With astonishment the
world will recognize that the Tailor is its Hierophant and Hierarch, or
even its God.

"As I stood in the Mosque of St. Sophia, and looked upon these
Four-and-Twenty Tailors, sewing and embroidering that rich Cloth, which the
Sultan sends yearly for the Caaba of Mecca, I thought within myself:  How
many other Unholies has your covering Art made holy, besides this Arabian

"Still more touching was it when, turning the corner of a lane, in the
Scottish Town of Edinburgh, I came upon a Signpost, whereon stood written
that such and such a one was 'Breeches-Maker to his Majesty;' and stood
painted the Effigies of a Pair of Leather Breeches, and between the knees
these memorable words, SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.  Was not this the martyr
prison-speech of a Tailor sighing indeed in bonds, yet sighing towards
deliverance, and prophetically appealing to a better day?  A day of
justice, when the worth of Breeches would be revealed to man, and the
Scissors become forever venerable.

"Neither, perhaps, may I now say, has his appeal been altogether in vain.
It was in this high moment, when the soul, rent, as it were, and shed
asunder, is open to inspiring influence, that I first conceived this Work
on Clothes:  the greatest I can ever hope to do; which has already, after
long retardations, occupied, and will yet occupy, so large a section of my
Life; and of which the Primary and simpler Portion may here find its


So have we endeavored, from the enormous, amorphous Plum-pudding, more like
a Scottish Haggis, which Herr Teufelsdrockh had kneaded for his
fellow-mortals, to pick out the choicest Plums, and present them separately
on a cover of our own.  A laborious, perhaps a thankless enterprise; in
which, however, something of hope has occasionally cheered us, and of which
we can now wash our hands not altogether without satisfaction.  If hereby,
though in barbaric wise, some morsel of spiritual nourishment have been
added to the scanty ration of our beloved British world, what nobler
recompense could the Editor desire?  If it prove otherwise, why should he
murmur?  Was not this a Task which Destiny, in any case, had appointed him;
which having now done with, he sees his general Day's-work so much the
lighter, so much the shorter?

Of Professor Teufelsdrockh, it seems impossible to take leave without a
mingled feeling of astonishment, gratitude, and disapproval.  Who will not
regret that talents, which might have profited in the higher walks of
Philosophy, or in Art itself, have been so much devoted to a rummaging
among lumber-rooms; nay too often to a scraping in kennels, where lost
rings and diamond-necklaces are nowise the sole conquests?  Regret is
unavoidable; yet censure were loss of time.  To cure him of his mad humors
British Criticism would essay in vain:  enough for her if she can, by
vigilance, prevent the spreading of such among ourselves.  What a result,
should this piebald, entangled, hyper-metaphorical style of writing, not to
say of thinking, become general among our Literary men!  As it might so
easily do.  Thus has not the Editor himself, working over Teufelsdrockh's
German, lost much of his own English purity?  Even as the smaller whirlpool
is sucked into the larger, and made to whirl along with it, so has the
lesser mind, in this instance, been forced to become portion of the
greater, and, like it, see all things figuratively:  which habit time and
assiduous effort will be needed to eradicate.

Nevertheless, wayward as our Professor shows himself, is there any reader
that can part with him in declared enmity?  Let us confess, there is that
in the wild, much-suffering, much-inflicting man, which almost attaches us.
His attitude, we will hope and believe, is that of a man who had said to
Cant, Begone; and to Dilettantism, Here thou canst not be; and to Truth, Be
thou in place of all to me:  a man who had manfully defied the
"Time-Prince," or Devil, to his face; nay perhaps, Hannibal-like, was
mysteriously consecrated from birth to that warfare, and now stood minded
to wage the same, by all weapons, in all places, at all times.  In such a
cause, any soldier, were he but a Polack Scythe-man, shall be welcome.

Still the question returns on us:  How could a man occasionally of keen
insight, not without keen sense of propriety, who had real Thoughts to
communicate, resolve to emit them in a shape bordering so closely on the
absurd?  Which question he were wiser than the present Editor who should
satisfactorily answer.  Our conjecture has sometimes been, that perhaps
Necessity as well as Choice was concerned in it.  Seems it not conceivable
that, in a Life like our Professor's, where so much bountifully given by
Nature had in Practice failed and misgone, Literature also would never
rightly prosper:  that striving with his characteristic vehemence to paint
this and the other Picture, and ever without success, he at last
desperately dashes his sponge, full of all colors, against the canvas, to
try whether it will paint Foam?  With all his stillness, there were perhaps
in Teufelsdrockh desperation enough for this.

A second conjecture we hazard with even less warranty.  It is, that
Teufelsdrockh, is not without some touch of the universal feeling, a wish
to proselytize.  How often already have we paused, uncertain whether the
basis of this so enigmatic nature were really Stoicism and Despair, or Love
and Hope only seared into the figure of these!  Remarkable, moreover, is
this saying of his:  "How were Friendship possible?  In mutual devotedness
to the Good and True:  otherwise impossible; except as Armed Neutrality, or
hollow Commercial League.  A man, be the Heavens ever praised, is
sufficient for himself; yet were ten men, united in Love, capable of being
and of doing what ten thousand singly would fail in.  Infinite is the help
man can yield to man."  And now in conjunction therewith consider this
other:  "It is the Night of the World, and still long till it be Day:  we
wander amid the glimmer of smoking ruins, and the Sun and the Stars of
Heaven are as if blotted out for a season; and two immeasurable Phantoms,
HYPOCRISY and ATHEISM, with the Ghoul, SENSUALITY, stalk abroad over the
Earth, and call it theirs:  well at ease are the Sleepers for whom
Existence is a shallow Dream."

But what of the awe-struck Wakeful who find it a Reality?  Should not these
unite; since even an authentic Spectre is not visible to Two?—In which
case were this Enormous Clothes-Volume properly an enormous Pitch-pan,
which our Teufelsdrockh in his lone watch-tower had kindled, that it might
flame far and wide through the Night, and many a disconsolately wandering
spirit be guided thither to a Brother's bosom!—We say as before, with all
his malign Indifference, who knows what mad Hopes this man may harbor?

Meanwhile there is one fact to be stated here, which harmonizes ill with
such conjecture; and, indeed, were Teufelsdrockh made like other men, might
as good as altogether subvert it.  Namely, that while the Beacon-fire
blazed its brightest, the Watchman had quitted it; that no pilgrim could
now ask him:  Watchman, what of the Night?  Professor Teufelsdrockh, be it
known, is no longer visibly present at Weissnichtwo, but again to all
appearance lost in space!  Some time ago, the Hofrath Heuschrecke was
pleased to favor us with another copious Epistle; wherein much is said
about the "Population-Institute;" much repeated in praise of the Paper-bag
Documents, the hieroglyphic nature of which our Hofrath still seems not to
have surmised; and, lastly, the strangest occurrence communicated, to us
for the first time, in the following paragraph:—

"Ew. Wohlgeboren will have seen from the Public Prints, with what
affectionate and hitherto fruitless solicitude Weissnichtwo regards the
disappearance of her Sage.  Might but the united voice of Germany prevail
on him to return; nay could we but so much as elucidate for ourselves by
what mystery he went away!  But, alas, old Lieschen experiences or affects
the profoundest deafness, the profoundest ignorance:  in the Wahngasse all
lies swept, silent, sealed up; the Privy Council itself can hitherto elicit
no answer.

"It had been remarked that while the agitating news of those Parisian Three
Days flew from mouth to month, and dinned every ear in Weissnichtwo, Herr
Teufelsdrockh was not known, at the Gans or elsewhere, to have spoken,
for a whole week, any syllable except once these three:  Es geht an (It
is beginning).  Shortly after, as Ew. Wohlgeboren knows, was the public
tranquillity here, as in Berlin, threatened by a Sedition of the Tailors.
Nor did there want Evil-wishers, or perhaps mere desperate Alarmists, who
asserted that the closing Chapter of the Clothes-Volume was to blame.  In
this appalling crisis, the serenity of our Philosopher was indescribable:
nay, perhaps through one humble individual, something thereof might pass
into the Rath (Council) itself, and so contribute to the country's
deliverance.  The Tailors are now entirely pacificated.—

"To neither of these two incidents can I attribute our loss:  yet still
comes there the shadow of a suspicion out of Paris and its Politics.  For
example, when the Saint-Simonian Society transmitted its Propositions
hither, and the whole Gans was one vast cackle of laughter, lamentation
and astonishment, our Sage sat mute; and at the end of the third evening
said merely:  'Here also are men who have discovered, not without
amazement, that Man is still Man; of which high, long-forgotten Truth you
already see them make a false application.'  Since then, as has been
ascertained by examination of the Post-Director, there passed at least one
Letter with its Answer between the Messieurs Bazard-Enfantin and our
Professor himself; of what tenor can now only be conjectured.  On the fifth
night following, he was seen for the last time!

"Has this invaluable man, so obnoxious to most of the hostile Sects that
convulse our Era, been spirited away by certain of their emissaries; or did
he go forth voluntarily to their head-quarters to confer with them, and
confront them?  Reason we have, at least of a negative sort, to believe the
Lost still living; our widowed heart also whispers that ere long he will
himself give a sign.  Otherwise, indeed, his archives must, one day, be
opened by Authority; where much, perhaps the Palingenesie itself, is
thought to be reposited."

Thus far the Hofrath; who vanishes, as is his wont, too like an Ignis
Fatuus, leaving the dark still darker.

So that Teufelsdrockh's public History were not done, then, or reduced to
an even, unromantic tenor; nay, perhaps the better part thereof were only
beginning?  We stand in a region of conjectures, where substance has melted
into shadow, and one cannot be distinguished from the other.  May Time,
which solves or suppresses all problems, throw glad light on this also!
Our own private conjecture, now amounting almost to certainty, is that,
safe-moored in some stillest obscurity, not to lie always still,
Teufelsdrockh, is actually in London!

Here, however, can the present Editor, with an ambrosial joy as of
over-weariness falling into sleep, lay down his pen.  Well does he know, if
human testimony be worth aught, that to innumerable British readers
likewise, this is a satisfying consummation; that innumerable British
readers consider him, during these current months, but as an uneasy
interruption to their ways of thought and digestion; and indicate so much,
not without a certain irritancy and even spoken invective.  For which, as
for other mercies, ought not he to thank the Upper Powers?  To one and all
of you, O irritated readers, he, with outstretched arms and open heart,
will wave a kind farewell.  Thou too, miraculous Entity, who namest thyself
YORKE and OLIVER, and with thy vivacities and genialities, with thy all too
Irish mirth and madness, and odor of palled punch, makest such strange
work, farewell; long as thou canst, fare-well!  Have we not, in the
course of Eternity, travelled some months of our Life-journey in partial
sight of one another; have we not existed together, though in a state of


This questionable little Book was undoubtedly written among the mountain
solitudes, in 1831; but, owing to impediments natural and accidental, could
not, for seven years more, appear as a Volume in England;—and had at last
to clip itself in pieces, and be content to struggle out, bit by bit, in
some courageous Magazine that offered.  Whereby now, to certain idly
curious readers, and even to myself till I make study, the insignificant
but at last irritating question, What its real history and chronology are,
is, if not insoluble, considerably involved in haze.

To the first English Edition, 1838, which an American, or two American had
now opened the way for, there was slightingly prefixed, under the title,
"Testimonies of Authors," some straggle of real documents, which, now
that I find it again, sets the matter into clear light and sequence:—and
shall here, for removal of idle stumbling-blocks and nugatory guessings
from the path of every reader, be reprinted as it stood.  (Author's Note,
of 1868.)



Taster to Bookseller.—" The Author of Teufelsdrockh is a person of
talent; his work displays here and there some felicity of thought and
expression, considerable fancy and knowledge:  but whether or not it would
take with the public seems doubtful.  For a jeu d'esprit of that kind it
is too long; it would have suited better as an essay or article than as a
volume.  The Author has no great tact; his wit is frequently heavy; and
reminds one of the German Baron who took to leaping on tables and answered
that he was learning to be lively.  Is the work a translation?"

Bookseller to Editor.—"Allow me to say that such a writer requires only
a little more tact to produce a popular as well as an able work.  Directly
on receiving your permission, I sent your MS. to a gentleman in the highest
class of men of letters, and an accomplished German scholar:  I now enclose
you his opinion, which, you may rely upon it, is a just one; and I have too
high an opinion of your good sense to" &c. &c.—Ms.  (penes nos), London,
17th September, 1831.


"Fraser's Magazine exhibits the usual brilliancy, and also the" &c.

"Sartor Resartus is what old Dennis used to call 'a heap of clotted
nonsense,' mixed however, here and there, with passages marked by thought
and striking poetic vigor.  But what does the writer mean by 'Baphometic
fire-baptism'?  Why cannot he lay aside his pedantry, and write so as to
make himself generally intelligible?  We quote by way of curiosity a
sentence from the Sartor Resartus; which may be read either backwards or
forwards, for it is equally intelligible either way:  indeed, by beginning
at the tail, and so working up to the head, we think the reader will stand
the fairest chance of getting at its meaning:  'The fire-baptized soul,
long so scathed and thunder-riven, here feels its own freedom; which
feeling is its Baphometic baptism:  the citadel of its whole kingdom it has
thus gained by assault, and will keep inexpugnable; outwards from which the
remaining dominions, not indeed without hard battering, will doubtless by
degrees be conquered and pacificated.'  Here is a"...—Sun Newspaper, 1st
April, 1834.


... "After a careful survey of the whole ground, our belief is that no such
persons as Professors Teufelsdrockh or Counsellor Heuschrecke ever existed;
that the six Paper-bags, with their China-ink inscriptions and multifarious
contents, are a mere figment of the brain; that the 'present Editor' is the
only person who has ever written upon the Philosophy of Clothes; and that
the Sartor Resartus is the only treatise that has yet appeared upon that
subject;—in short, that the whole account of the origin of the work before
us, which the supposed Editor relates with so much gravity, and of which we
have given a brief abstract, is, in plain English, a hum.

"Without troubling our readers at any great length with our reasons for
entertaining these suspicions, we may remark, that the absence of all other
information on the subject, except what is contained in the work, is itself
a fact of a most significant character.  The whole German press, as well as
the particular one where the work purports to have been printed, seems to
be under the control of Stillschweigen and Co. —Silence and Company.  If
the Clothes-Philosophy and its author are making so great a sensation
throughout Germany as is pretended, how happens it that the only notice we
have of the fact is contained in a few numbers of a monthly Magazine
published at London!  How happens it that no intelligence about the matter
has come out directly to this country?  We pique ourselves here in New
England upon knowing at least as much of what is going on in the literary
way in the old Dutch Mother-land as our brethren of the fast-anchored Isle;
but thus far we have no tidings whatever of the 'extensive close-printed,
close-meditated volume,' which forms the subject of this pretended
commentary.  Again, we would respectfully inquire of the 'present Editor'
upon what part of the map of Germany we are to look for the city of
Weissnichtwo—'Know-not-where'—at which place the work is supposed to
have been printed, and the Author to have resided.  It has been our fortune
to visit several portions of the German territory, and to examine pretty
carefully, at different times and for various purposes, maps of the whole;
but we have no recollection of any such place.  We suspect that the city of
Know-not-where might be called, with at least as much propriety,
Nobody-knows-where, and is to be found in the kingdom of Nowhere.
Again, the village of Entepfuhl—'Duck-pond'—where the supposed Author
of the work is said to have passed his youth, and that of Hinterschlag,
where he had his education, are equally foreign to our geography.
Duck-ponds enough there undoubtedly are in almost every village in Germany,
as the traveller in that country knows too well to his cost, but any
particular village denominated Duck-pond is to us altogether terra
incognita.  The names of the personages are not less singular than those
of the places.  Who can refrain from a smile at the yoking together of such
a pair of appellatives as Diogenes Teufelsdrockh?  The supposed bearer of
this strange title is represented as admitting, in his pretended
autobiography, that 'he had searched to no purpose through all the Heralds'
books in and without the German empire, and through all manner of
Subscribers'-lists, Militia-rolls, and other Name-catalogues,' but had
nowhere been able to find 'the name Teufelsdrockh, except as appended to
his own person.'  We can readily believe this, and we doubt very much
whether any Christian parent would think of condemning a son to carry
through life the burden of so unpleasant a title.  That of Counsellor
Heuschrecke—'Grasshopper'— though not offensive, looks much more like a
piece of fancy-work than a 'fair business transaction.'  The same may be
said of Blumine—'Flower-Goddess'—the heroine of the fable; and so of
the rest.

"In short, our private opinion is, as we have remarked, that the whole
story of a correspondence with Germany, a university of Nobody-knows-where,
a Professor of Things in General, a Counsellor Grasshopper, a
Flower-Goddess Blumine, and so forth, has about as much foundation in truth
as the late entertaining account of Sir John Herschel's discoveries in the
moon.  Fictions of this kind are, however, not uncommon, and ought not,
perhaps, to be condemned with too much severity; but we are not sure that
we can exercise the same indulgence in regard to the attempt, which seems
to be made to mislead the public as to the substance of the work before us,
and its pretended German original.  Both purport, as we have seen, to be
upon the subject of Clothes, or dress.  Clothes, their Origin and
Influence, is the title of the supposed German treatise of Professor
Teufelsdrockh and the rather odd name of Sartor Resartus—the Tailor
Patched—which the present Editor has affixed to his pretended commentary,
seems to look the same way.  But though there is a good deal of remark
throughout the work in a half-serious, half-comic style upon dress, it
seems to be in reality a treatise upon the great science of Things in
General, which Teufelsdrockh, is supposed to have professed at the
university of Nobody-knows-where.  Now, without intending to adopt a too
rigid standard of morals, we own that we doubt a little the propriety of
offering to the public a treatise on Things in General, under the name and
in the form of an Essay on Dress.  For ourselves, advanced as we
unfortunately are in the journey of life, far beyond the period when dress
is practically a matter of interest, we have no hesitation in saying, that
the real subject of the work is to us more attractive than the ostensible
one.  But this is probably not the case with the mass of readers.  To the
younger portion of the community, which constitutes everywhere the very
great majority, the subject of dress is one of intense and paramount
importance.  An author who treats it appeals, like the poet, to the young
men end maddens—virginibus puerisque—and calls upon them, by all the
motives which habitually operate most strongly upon their feelings, to buy
his book.  When, after opening their purses for this purpose, they have
carried home the work in triumph, expecting to find in it some particular
instruction in regard to the tying of their neckcloths, or the cut of their
corsets, and meet with nothing better than a dissertation on Things in
General, they will—to use the mildest term—not be in very good humor.  If
the last improvements in legislation, which we have made in this country,
should have found their way to England, the author, we think, would stand
some chance of being Lynched.  Whether his object in this piece of
supercherie be merely pecuniary profit, or whether he takes a malicious
pleasure in quizzing the Dandies, we shall not undertake to say.  In the
latter part of the work, he devotes a separate chapter to this class of
persons, from the tenor of which we should be disposed to conclude, that he
would consider any mode of divesting them of their property very much in
the nature of a spoiling of the Egyptians.

"The only thing about the work, tending to prove that it is what it
purports to be, a commentary on a real German treatise, is the style, which
is a sort of Babylonish dialect, not destitute, it is true, of richness,
vigor, and at times a sort of singular felicity of expression, but very
strongly tinged throughout with the peculiar idiom of the German language.
This quality in the style, however, may be a mere result of a great
familiarity with German literature; and we cannot, therefore, look upon it
as in itself decisive, still less as outweighing so much evidence of an
opposite character."— North-American Review, No.  89, October, 1835.


"The Editors have been induced, by the expressed desire of many persons, to
collect the following sheets out of the ephemeral pamphlets* in which they
first appeared, under the conviction that they contain in themselves the
assurance of a longer date.

*Fraser's (London) Magazine, 1833-34.

"The Editors have no expectation that this little Work will have a sudden
and general popularity.  They will not undertake, as there is no need, to
justify the gay costume in which the Author delights to dress his thoughts,
or the German idioms with which he has sportively sprinkled his pages.  It
is his humor to advance the gravest speculations upon the gravest topics in
a quaint and burlesque style.  If his masquerade offend any of his
audience, to that degree that they will not hear what he has to say, it may
chance to draw others to listen to his wisdom; and what work of imagination
can hope to please all!  But we will venture to remark that the distaste
excited by these peculiarities in some readers is greatest at first, and is
soon forgotten; and that the foreign dress and aspect of the Work are quite
superficial, and cover a genuine Saxon heart.  We believe, no book has been
published for many years, written in a more sincere style of idiomatic
English, or which discovers an equal mastery over all the riches of the
language.  The Author makes ample amends for the occasional eccentricity of
his genius, not only by frequent bursts of pure splendor, but by the wit
and sense which never fail him.

"But what will chiefly commend the Book to the discerning reader is the
manifest design of the work, which is, a Criticism upon the Spirit of the
Age—we had almost said, of the hour—in which we live; exhibiting in the
most just and novel light the present aspects of Religion, Politics,
Literature, Arts, and Social Life.  Under all his gayety the Writer has an
earnest meaning, and discovers an insight into the manifold wants and
tendencies of human nature, which is very rare among our popular authors.
The philanthropy and the purity of moral sentiment, which inspire the work,
will find their way to the heart of every lover of virtue."—Preface to
Sartor Resartus:   Boston, 1835, 1837.


LONDON, 30th June, 1838.