“I too could now say to myself:  Be no longer a Chaos, but a World, or even Worldkin.  Produce!  Produce!  Were it but the pitifullest infinitesimal fraction of a Product, produce it, in God’s name!  ’Tis the utmost thou hast in thee:  out with it, then.  Up, up!  Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy whole might.  Work while it is called To-day; for the Night cometh, wherein no man can work.”

CHAPTER X. PAUSE.

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?