Sartor Resartus | Page 7

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