and harmonized; and the total want of all shape is immediately supplied by the beautiful undulations of the coat, and the graceful fall of the pantaloons. And all this is by the potency of your tailor. His necromantic skill, unlike that of too many practisers of supernatural arts, is exercised only for the benefit of the world: and whilst Circe transformed the companions of Ulysses into brute beasts, the benevolent enchanter of our day transforms brute beasts into handsome and attractive men. Nay, had Olympus been furnished with a tailor, Brotheus would have had no necessity to burn himself to death for the purpose of escaping ridicule from the gods on account of his deformity.

But he who is most indebted to this manufacturer of elegant forms, is the lover; and the base ingratitude of this sort of person is dreadfully enormous. After he has riveted the gaze of his mistress upon his charming figure, drawn forth sighs of admiration for his remarkable elegance, excited the most tender perturbations by the grace of his movements, and finally acquired a complete surrender of her heart by the striking interest of his attitude when kneeling at her feet, he ignorantly and presumptuously ascribes this to his own intrinsic qualities, without ever remembering that the abilities of his tailor are the sole source of all his success. The very being, who has 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 quotations; if he speak of history,—why he has played in Richard and Coriolanus. The stage is with him the fixed orb around which the whole world revolves; there is nothing worthy of a moment's devotion one hundred yards from the green-room. It is amusing to perceive how blind, how dead, is our real Actor to the stir and turmoil of politics; he will turn from a Salamanca to admire a Sir John Brute's wig; Waterloo sinks into insignificance before the amber-headed cane of a Sir Peter Teazle. What is St. Stephen's to him—what the memory of Burke and Chatham? To be sure, Sheridan is well remembered; but then Sheridan wrote the Critic.

A mackerel lives longer out of water than does an Actor out of his element: he cannot, for a minute, "look abroad into universality." Keep him to the last edition of a new or old play, the burning of the two theatres, or an anecdote of John Kemble, and our Actor sparkles amazingly. Put to him an unprofessional question, and you strike him dumb; an abstract truth locks his jaws. On the contrary, listen to the stock-joke; lend an attentive ear to the witticism clubbed by the whole green-room—for there is rarely more than one at a time in circulation—and no man talks faster—none with a deeper delight to himself—none more profound, more knowing. The conversation of our Actor is a fine "piece of mosaic." Here Shakspeare is laid under contribution—here Farquhar—here Otway. We have an undigested mass of quotations, dropping without order from him. In words he is absolutely impoverishable. What a lion he stalks in a country town! How he stilts himself upon his jokes over the sleek, unsuspecting heads of his astonished hearers! He tells a story; and, for the remainder of the night, sits embosomed in the ineffable lustre of his humour.—Monthly Mag.

THE NOVELIST.

THE BROKEN HEART.

A mutual affection had existed from their very childhood between Henri Merville and Louise Courtin; their respective parents were near neighbours, and on very friendly terms with one another; they, therefore, watched the infantile attachment of their children with great pleasure, and with still more self-congratulation did they perceive that, growing with their growth, and strengthening with their strength, it had ripened into an ardent and deep-rooted passion. When Henri, however, had attained his twentieth year, Louise being also only seventeen, it became necessary that he should leave the humble village of Verny, and perfect himself in his trade as a cabinet-maker, by visiting and working in some large and opulent towns. The lovers, amid their increasing happiness, had never thought of this long separation; so that when Henri was told by his father that he must leave home, and be away three years, and Louise informed by her mother of the same circumstance, the intelligence came upon them like an earthquake. Woman's feelings are more easily excited, and Louise felt as if Verny would be a desert without her dear Henri; he too was sad enough, although the preparations for his journey occupied the greatest portion of his time, and prevented his so continually thinking of the separation as she did. Grief and regret were useless; the parting hour arrived, and the now miserable pair were left to themselves. They mutually made vows of eternal constancy and fidelity; as is the custom in the provinces, they exchanged rings, and became rather more resigned to their unavoidable separation.

Henri at last departed, and was ten miles from Verny before he could comprehend how he had summoned up resolution enough to leave it. Louise, shut up in her little room, was weeping bitterly, and felt no inclination to go out, since she could no longer meet Henri; but, in a short time, both of them, without feeling less regret, bethought themselves of making the wearisome interval useful to their future prospects.

During the first eighteen months, he travelled about from town to town; but at last, in Lyons, made an engagement with a person who had a very extensive business, of the name of