endowed such
a man with all his attractions, rests contented with the payment of his
bills, (if he be fortunate enough to obtain that;) whilst the other, by
the power of fascinations so procured, obtains a lovely wife and twenty
thousand pounds. _Sic vos non vobis_, &c.

Such is the skill of that wonderful being, the tailor, that his
transformations are not more extraordinary than sudden. The time which
is occupied in thus new-moulding the human frame is really trivial
compared with the stupendous change which is literally wrought. It is
true, the soul may remain the same, but a new body is actually given to
it by the interposition of vestiary talent: and this is what we have
always believed to be the genuine meaning of the metempsychosis of
Pythagoras.

It is not, therefore, without the most cogent reasons that we assert our
opinion, that the distich of Pope, "Worth makes the man," or the title
appended by Colley Cibber to one of his dramas, "Love makes the man,"
ought henceforth to yield, in point of truth, to the irrefragable
principle which we here solemnly advance, "that it is the tailor makes
the man."--_Blackwood's Magazine_.

* * * * *

THE ACTOR.

Perhaps Fortune does not buffet any set of beings with more industry,
and withal less effect, than Actors. There may be something in the
habitual mutability of their feelings that evades the blow; they live,
in a great measure, out of this dull sphere, "which men call earth;"
they assume the dress, the tone, the gait of emperors, kings, nobles;
the world slides, and they mark it not. The Actor leaves his home, and
forgets every domestic exigence in the temporary government of a state,
or overthrow of a tyrant; he is completely out of the real world until
the dropping of the curtain. The time likewise not spent on the stage is
passed in preparation for the night; and thus the shafts of fate glance
from our Actor like swan-shot from an elephant, If struck at all, the
barb must pierce the bones, and quiver in the marrow.

Our Actor--mind, we are speaking of players in the mass--is the most
joyous, careless, superficial flutterer in existence. He knows every
thing, yet has learned nothing; he has played at ducks and drakes over
every rivulet of information, yet never plunged inch-deep into any thing
beyond a play-book, or Joe Miller's jests. If he venture a scrap of
Latin, be sure there is among his luggage a dictionary of quotatio