Consider, thou foolish Teufelsdrockh, what benefits unspeakable all ages and sexes derive from Clothes.  For example, when thou thyself, a watery, pulpy, slobbery freshman and new-comer in this Planet, sattest muling and puking in thy nurse’s arms; sucking thy coral, and looking forth into the world in the blankest manner, what hadst thou been without thy blankets, and bibs, and other nameless hulls?  A terror to thyself and mankind!  Or hast thou forgotten the day when thou first receivedst breeches, and thy long clothes became short?  The village where thou livedst was all apprised of the fact; and neighbor after neighbor kissed thy pudding-cheek, and gave thee, as handsel, silver or copper coins, on that the first gala-day of thy existence.  Again, wert not thou, at one period of life, a Buck, or Blood, or Macaroni, or Incroyable, or Dandy, or by whatever name, according to year and place, such phenomenon is distinguished?  In that one word lie included mysterious volumes.  Nay, now when the reign of folly is over, or altered, and thy clothes are not for triumph but for defence, hast thou always worn them perforce, and as a consequence of Man’s Fall; never rejoiced in them as in a warm movable House, a Body round thy Body, wherein that strange THEE of thine sat snug, defying all variations of Climate?  Girt with thick double-milled kerseys; half buried under shawls and broadbrims, and overalls and mudboots, thy very fingers cased in doeskin and mittens, thou hast bestrode that “Horse I ride;” and, though it were in wild winter, dashed through the world, glorying in it as if thou wert its lord.  In vain did the sleet beat round thy temples; it lighted only on thy impenetrable, felted or woven, case of wool.  In vain did the winds howl,—­forests sounding and creaking, deep calling unto deep,—­and the storms heap themselves together into one huge Arctic whirlpool:  thou flewest through the middle thereof, striking fire from the highway; wild music hummed in thy ears, thou too wert as a “sailor of the air;” the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds was thy element and propitiously wafting tide.  Without Clothes, without bit or saddle, what hadst thou been; what had thy fleet quadruped been?—­Nature is good, but she is not the best:  here truly was the victory of Art over Nature.  A thunderbolt indeed might have pierced thee; all short of this thou couldst defy.

Or, cries the courteous reader, has your Teufelsdrockh forgotten what he said lately about “Aboriginal Savages,” and their “condition miserable indeed”?  Would he have all this unsaid; and us betake ourselves again to the “matted cloak,” and go sheeted in a “thick natural fell”?