without obstruction and perversion when the Clothes are full, may have
free course when they are empty. Even as, for Hindoo Worshippers, the
Pagoda is not less sacred than the God; so do I too worship the hollow
cloth Garment with equal fervour, as when it contained the Man: nay,
with more, for I now fear no deception, of myself or of others.

'Did not King _Toomtabard_, or, in other words, John Baliol, reign
long over Scotland; the man John Baliol being quite gone, and only the
"Toom Tabard" (Empty Gown) remaining? What still dignity dwells in a
suit of Cast Clothes! How meekly it bears its honours! No haughty
looks, no scornful gesture: silent and serene, it fronts the world;
neither demanding worship, nor afraid to miss it. The Hat still
carries the physiognomy of its Head: but the vanity and the stupidity,
and goose-speech which was the sign of these two, are gone. The
Coat-arm is stretched out, but not to strike; the Breeches, in modest
simplicity, depend at ease, and now at last have a graceful flow; the
Waistcoat hides no evil passion, no riotous desire; hunger or thirst
now dwells not in it. Thus all is purged from the grossness of sense,
from the carking cares and foul vices of the World; and rides there,
on its Clothes-horse; as, on a Pegasus, might some skyey Messenger, or
purified Apparition, visiting our low Earth.

'Often, while I sojourned in that monstrous tuberosity of Civilised
Life, the Capital of England; and meditated, and questioned Destiny,
under that ink-sea of vapour, black, thick, and multifarious as
Spartan broth; and was one lone soul amid those grinding
millions;--often have I turned into their Old-Clothes Market to
worship. With awe-struck heart I walk through that Monmouth Street,
with its empty Suits, as through a Sanhedrim of stainless Ghosts.
Silent are they, but expressive in their silence: the past witnesses
and instruments of Woe and Joy, of Passions, Virtues, Crimes, and all
the fathomless tumult of Good and Evil in "the Prison men call Life."
Friends! trust not the heart of that man for whom Old Clothes are not
venerable. Watch, too, with reverence, that bearded Jewish
High-priest, who with hoarse voice, like some Angel of Doom, summons
them from the four winds! On his head, like the Pope, he has three
Hats,--a real triple tiara; on either hand are the similitude of
wings, whereon the summoned Garments come to alight; and ever, as he
slowly cleaves the air, sounds forth his deep