CHAPTER VIII.

THE WORLD OUT OF CLOTHES.

IF in the descriptive-historical portion of his volume, Teufelsdröckh, discussing merely the Werden (origin and successive improvement) of Clothes, has astonished many a reader, much more will he in the speculativephilosophical portion, which treats of their Wirken, or influences. It is here that the present Editor first feels the pressure of his task; for here properly the higher and new philosophy of Clothes commences; an 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! Teufelsdröckh undertakes no less than to expound the moral, political, even religious influences of Clothes. He undertakes to make manifest, in its thousandfold 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 stand all 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, too, must we 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 canvass to sail thither?-As exordium to the whole, stands here the following long citation:

"With men of a speculative turn," writes Teufelsdröckh, "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 stone-walls, and thick-piled 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 sha dows 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.

and

"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 worse death, a spiritual. What are your axioms, 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 canvass (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, and 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 æther 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 thousandfold 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 the 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 twentyunits of us that have learned the meaning thereof?"