out. The tailor expanded with a new spirit; his joints ceased to
be supple, as in the days of his valor; his eye became less fiery
but more brilliant. From being martial, he got desperately gallant;
but, somehow, he could not afford to act the hero and lover both
at the same time. This, perhaps, would be too much to expect from
a tailor. His policy was better. He resolved to bring all his
available energy to bear upon the charms of whatever fair nymph he
should select for the honour of matrimony; to waste his spirit in
fighting would, therefore, be a deduction from the single purpose
in view.

The transition from war to love is by no means so remarkable as we
might at first imagine. We quote Jack Falstaff in proof of this;
or, if the reader be disposed to reject our authority, then we
quote Ancient Pistol himself--both of whom we consider as the most
finished specimens of heroism that ever carried a safe skin. Acres
would have been a hero had he worn gloves to prevent the courage
from oozing out at his palms, or not felt such an unlucky antipathy
to the "snug lying in the Abbey"; and as for Captain Bobadil, he
never had an opportunity of putting his plan for vanquishing an
army into practice. We fear, indeed, that neither his character
nor Ben Jonson's knowledge of human nature is properly understood;
for it certainly could not be expected that a man whose spirit
glowed to encounter a whole host could, without tarnishing his
dignity, if closely pressed, condescend to fight an individual.
But as these remarks on courage may be felt by the reader as an
invidious introduction of a subject disagreeable to him, we beg
to hush it for the present and return to the tailor.

No sooner had Neal begun to feel an inclination to matrimony than