vertheless, need I put the question to any Physiologist, whether it
is disputable or not? Seems it not at least presumable, that, under his
Clothes, the Tailor has bones and viscera, and other muscles than the
sartorius? Which function of manhood is the Tailor not conjectured
to perform? Can he not arrest for debt? Is he not in most countries a
taxpaying animal?

"To no reader of this Volume can it be doubtful which conviction is
mine. Nay if the fruit of these long vigils, and almost preternatural
Inquiries, is not to perish utterly, the world will have approximated
towards a higher Truth; and the doctrine, which Swift, with the keen
forecast of genius, dimly anticipated, will stand revealed in clear
light: that the Tailor is not only a Man, but something of a Creator or
Divinity. Of Franklin it was said, that 'he snatched the Thunder from
Heaven and the Sceptre from Kings:' but which is greater, I would ask,
he that lends, or he that snatches? For, looking away from individual
cases, and how a Man is by the Tailor new-created into a Nobleman, and
clothed not only with Wool but with Dignity and a Mystic Dominion,--is
not the fair fabric of Society itself, with all its royal mantles and
pontifical stoles, whereby, from nakedness and dismemberment, we are
organized into Polities, into nations, and a whole co-operating Mankind,
the creation, as has here been often irrefragably evinced, of the Tailor
alone?--What too are all Poets and moral Teachers, but a species of
Metaphorical Tailors? Touching which high Guild the greatest living
Guild-brother has triumphantly asked us: 'Nay if thou wilt have it,
who but the Poet first made Gods for men; brought them down to us; and
raised us up to them?'

"And this is he, whom sitting downcast, on the hard basis of his
Shopboard, the world treats with contumely, as the ninth part of a man!
Look up, thou much-injured one, look up with the kindling eye of hope,
and prophetic bodings of a noble better time. Too long hast thou sat
there, on crossed legs, wearing thy ankle-joints to horn; like some
sacred Anchorite, or Catholic Fakir, doing penance, drawing down
Heaven's richest blessings, for a world that scoffed at thee. Be of
hope! Already streaks of blue peer through our clouds; the thick gloom
of Ignorance is rolling asunder, and it will be Day. Mankind will
repay with interest their long-accumulated debt: the Anchorite that was
scoffed at will be worshipped; the Fraction will become