To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
—Worthwords
即使最賤的花朵綻放，也能給我帶來沉思，
深埋心底，使我潸然淚下。
Between the chaos of Regent Street and the opulent bustle of New Bond Street is a little region that is curiously hushed. It is made up of short streets that pretend to run paralleled to one another, but actually go off at all angles. At a first glance these streets appear to be filled with the offices of very old firms of family solicitors. Many of their windows have severe wire screens. The establishments there have a certain air of dignified secrecy, not unlike that of servants of the old school, those impassive butlers who appeared to know nothing, but really knew everything. There is little evidence that anything is being sold in this part of the world. The electric - light bills must be very modest indeed, for there are no flashing signs to assault the eye, no gaudily dressed windows to tempt the feet to loiter. Whatever the season no Sales are held there. You are not invited to stop a moment longer than you may wish to do. Now and then you catch sight of a roll of cloth a pair of riding breeches, or, perhaps, a sobbed little drawing of a gentlemen in evening clothes, and as you pass you can hear these things whispering: “If you are a gentleman and wish to wear the clothes that a gentleman should wear, kindly make an appointment here and well see what we can do for you..” Money, of course, is not mentioned, this being impossible in all such gentlemanly transactions. For this is the region, Savile Row, Conduit Street, Maddox Street, and the rest , of the tailors or - rather - the tailors. Enter it wearing a cheap ready-made suit, and immediately the poor thing begins to bag in some places and shrivel up in others. If you have the these establishments wearing a ready-made suit, you will regret it. Noting is said, but a glance from one of the higher officials here strips you and quietly deposits your apparel in the dust-bin.
The hush here is significant. It might be described as old-world and for a very good reason., too. In a new world in which anything will do so long as it arrives quickly and easily, this region has fallen sadly behind the time . It is still engaged in the old quest for perfection. Behind these wire screens the search for the absolute still goes on. Tailoring here remains one of the arts. There are men in this quarter who could announce in all sincerity that trouser are beauty, beauty trousers, and that is all we know and need to know. For them the smallest seam they sew can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. That they are artists and not tradesmen is proved by the fact that, unlike tradesmen, they do not labour to please their customers, but to please themselves. A tailor who is a mere shopkeeper fits you until you are satisfied. These artists go on fitting you until they are satisfied, and that they continue long after have lost all interest in the matter. You stand there, amere body or lay figure and they still go on delicately ripping out sleeves, and collars with their little penknives, pinning and unpinning, and making mysterious signs with chalk, and you have long ceased to understand what all the bother is about. And even then they may thell you, quietly but firmly, that they must have another fitting. That they should do this to me is poof positive of their disinterested passion for the art of tailoring.
※本文作者：佚名※