with their mysteries, no notice here!  Of Napoleon himself we shall only, glancing from afar, remark that Teufelsdrockh’s relation to him seems to have been of very varied character.  At first we find our poor Professor on the point of being shot as a spy; then taken into private conversation, even pinched on the ear, yet presented with no money; at last indignantly dismissed, almost thrown out of doors, as an “Ideologist.”  “He himself,” says the Professor, “was among the completest Ideologists, at least Ideopraxists:  in the Idea (in der Idee) he lived, moved and fought.  The man was a Divine Missionary, though unconscious of it; and preached, through the cannon’s throat, that great doctrine, La carriere ouverte aux talens (The Tools to him that can handle them), which is our ultimate Political Evangel, wherein alone can liberty lie.  Madly enough he preached, it is true, as Enthusiasts and first Missionaries are wont, with imperfect utterance, amid much frothy rant; yet as articulately perhaps as the case admitted.  Or call him, if you will, an American Backwoodsman, who had to fell unpenetrated forests, and battle with innumerable wolves, and did not entirely forbear strong liquor, rioting, and even theft; whom, notwithstanding, the peaceful Sower will follow, and, as he cuts the boundless harvest, bless.”

More legitimate and decisively authentic is Teufelsdrockh’s appearance and emergence (we know not well whence) in the solitude of the North Cape, on that June Midnight.  He has a “light-blue Spanish cloak” hanging round him, as his “most commodious, principal, indeed sole upper-garment;” and stands there, on the World-promontory, looking over the infinite Brine, like a little blue Belfry (as we figure), now motionless indeed, yet ready, if stirred, to ring quaintest changes.

“Silence as of death,” writes he; “for Midnight, even in the Arctic latitudes, has its character:  nothing but the granite cliffs ruddy-tinged, the peaceable gurgle of that slow-heaving Polar Ocean, over which in the utmost North the great Sun hangs low and lazy, as if he too were slumbering.  Yet is his cloud-couch wrought of crimson and cloth-of-gold; yet does his light stream over the mirror of waters, like a tremulous fire-pillar, shooting downwards to the abyss, and hide itself under my feet.  In such moments, Solitude also is invaluable; for who would speak, or be looked on, when behind him lies all Europe and Africa, fast asleep, except the watchmen; and before him the silent Immensity, and Palace of the Eternal, whereof our Sun is but a porch-lamp?

“Nevertheless, in this solemn moment comes a man, or monster, scrambling from among the rock-hollows; and, shaggy, huge as the Hyperborean Bear, hails me in Russian speech:  most probably, therefore, a Russian Smuggler.  With courteous brevity, I signify my indifference to contraband trade, my humane intentions, yet strong wish to be private.  In vain:  the monster, counting doubtless on his