scurely, that, should the present Editor feel disposed to undertake a biography of Teufelsdröckh, 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 Teufelsdröckh," 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.

*

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 Teufelsdröckh'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 connexion of ours with Teufelsdröckh, 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

* 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.

compliments themselves. Grateful they may well be; as generous illusions of friendship; as fair mementos of by-gone 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 ; Teufelsdröckh 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 internecive 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.

CHAPTER III.

REMINISCENCES.

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 Teufelsdröckh, 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), then 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 any thing 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 coffeehouse (it was Zum Grünen Ganse, 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

* Gukguk is, unhappily, only an academical-Beer.

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, cloudcapt without and within, the assembly broke up, each to his thoughtful pillow. Bleibt doch ein echter Spass- und Galgenvogel, said several; meaning thereby that, one day, he would probably be hanged for his democratic sentiments. Wo steckt der Schalk? added they, looking round; but Teufelsdrückh had retired by private alleys, and the compiler of these pages beheld him no more.

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 Teufelsdröckh, 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 have fancied that their stillness was but the rest of infinite motion, the sleep of a spinningtop? Thy little finger, 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, were