His tailor is his creator, and makes him of nothing; and though he lives by faith in him, he is perpetually committing iniquities against him.  His soul dwells in the outside of him, like that of a hollow tree, and if you do but peel the bark off him he deceases immediately.  His carriage of himself is the wearing of his clothes, and, like the cinnamon tree, his bark is better than his body.  His looking big is rather a tumour than greatness.  He is an idol that has just so much value as other men give him that believe in him, but none of his own.  He makes his ignorance pass for reserve, and, like a hunting-nag, leaps over what he cannot get through.  He has just so much of politics as hostlers in the university have Latin.  He is as humble as a Jesuit to his superior, but repays himself again in insolence over those that are below him, and with a generous scorn despises those that can neither do him good nor hurt.  He adores those that may do him good, though he knows they never will, and despises those that would not hurt him if they could.  The court is his church, and he believes as that believes, and cries up and down everything as he finds it pass there.  It is a great comfort to him to think that some who do not know him may perhaps take him for a lord, and while that thought lasts he looks bigger than usual and forgets his acquaintance, and that’s the reason why he will sometimes know you and sometimes not.  Nothing but want of money or credit puts him in mind that he is mortal, but then he trusts Providence that somebody will trust him, and in expectation of that hopes for a better life, and that his debts will never rise up in judgment against him.  To get in debt is to labour in his vocation, but to pay is to forfeit his protection, for what’s that worth to one that owes nothing?  His employment being only to wear his clothes, the whole account of his life and actions is recorded in shopkeepers’ books, that are his faithful historiographers to their own posterity; and he believes he loses so much reputation as he pays off his debts, and that no man wears his clothes in fashion that pays for them, for nothing is further from the mode.  He believes that he that runs in debt is beforehand with those that trust him, and only those that pay are behind.  His brains are turned giddy, like one that walks on the top of a house, and that’s the reason it is so troublesome to him to look downwards.  He is a kind of spectrum, and his clothes are the shape he takes to appear and walk in, and when he puts them off he vanishes.  He runs as busily out of one room into another as a great practiser does in Westminster Hall from one court to another.  When he accosts a lady he puts both ends of his microcosm in motion, by making legs at one end and combing his peruke at the other.  His garniture is the sauce to his clothes, and he walks in his portcannons like one that stalks in long grass.  Every motion of him cries “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, quoth the preacher.”  He rides himself like