There is a harmony, a propriety in the coat of a man of fashion, an unstudied ease, a graceful symmetry, a delicacy of expression, that has always filled us with the profoundest admiration of the genius of the artist; indeed, no ready money could purchase coats that we have seen--coats that a real love of the subject, and working upon long credit, for a high connexion, could alone have given to the world--coats, not the dull conceptions of a geometric cutter, spiritlessly outlined upon the shop-board by the crayon of a mercenary foreman, but the fortunate creation of superior intelligence, boldly executed in the happy moments of a generous enthusiasm! Vain, very vain is it for the pretender to fashion to go swelling into the _atelier_ of a first-rate coat architect, with his ready money in his hand, to order such a coat! _Order_ such a coat, forsooth! order a Raphael, a Michael Angelo, an epic poem. Such a coat--we say it with the generous indignation of a free Briton--is one of the exclusive privileges reserved, by unjust laws, to a selfish aristocracy! The aristocratic trouser-cutter, too, deserves our unlimited approbation. Nothing more distinguishes the nineteenth century, in which those who can manage it have the happiness to live, than the precision we have attained in trouser-cutting. While yet the barbarism of the age, or poverty of customers, _vested_ the office of trouser-cutter and coat architect in the same functionary, coats were without _soul_, and "inexpressibles" inexpressibly bad, or, as Coleridge would have said, "ridiculous exceedingly." In our day, on the contrary, we have attained to such a pitch of excellence, that the trouser-cutter who fails to give expression to his works, is hunted into the provinces, and condemned for life to manufacture nether garments for clergymen and country gentlemen.