Sartorial Soliloquy.

Do clothes make the man or does the man make the clothes make the man. The answer is in the derogative; for men, if left to their own devices and bereft of their L.S.D.-vices, would satisfy their moods in mercery with a bare skin in summer and a bear skin in winter. The masculine mind, unsullied by the influence of connubial coercion, yearns not for rhetorical rainment, vested vestments, conducive coatings, palliative paintings or gilded gadgets of sartorial seduction. The male is a simple soul with a one way track on his mental map who believes that nothing can nullify the architectural anachronisms perpetrated by Nature in his personal pill-box, without his approval or authority. But the tailor is a titillator of the temporal ticking; a miracle-man who, by the machinations of mode and measure, can straighten out bow legs, convert a bay front to a flat facade, make four-by-two shoulders resemble the top hamper of a square-rigged bone setter, make the fat fitting and the bony bonny, and generally get a scissors hold on the sartorial sassafras.