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.