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 “SOCIETY FOR THE CONSERVATION OF PROPERTY (Eigenthums-conservirende 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 us?

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 humorístico-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 blame.

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 conjecture.

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.