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all but the manner, and - that was _not_ yours. No, no, you never would
have treated your uncle so.” - “How rejoiced I am, that - ”

“Rejoiced; so am I. I would not but have been undeceived for a thousand
guineas. Nothing but seeing you here so quiet, so studious, surrounded
by problems, would have convinced me. Ecod! I can’t tell you how I was
startled. I had been told some queer stories, to be sure, about your
Cambridge etiquette. I heard that two Cambridge men, one of St. John’s,
the other of Trinity, had met on the top of Vesuvius, and that though
they knew each other by sight and reputation, yet, never having been
formally introduced, like two simpletons, they looked at each other in
silence, and left the mountain separately and without speaking: and that
cracked fellow-commoner, Meadows, had shewn me a caricature, taken from
the life, representing a Cambridge man drowning, and another gownsman
standing on the brink, exclaiming, ‘Oh! that I had had the honour of
being introduced to that man, that I might have taken the liberty of
saving him!’ But, - it, thought I, he never would carry it so far with
his own uncle! - I never heard your father was a gay man,” continued he,
musing; “yet, as you sit in that light, the likeness is - ” I moved
instantly - “But it’s impossible, you know, it’s impossible. Come, my
dear fellow, come; I must get some dinner. Who could he be? Never were
two people so like!”

We dined at the inn, and spent the evening together; and instead of the
fifty, the “_last fifty_,” he generously gave me a draft lor three times
the amount. He left Cambridge the next morning and his last words were,
as he entered his carriage, “My brother _was_ a handsome man; and there
_was_ a Lady Somebody, who, the world said was partial to him. She _may_
have a son. Most surprising likeness. God bless you. Read hard, you
young dog; remember. Like as two Brothers!” - I never saw him again.

His death, which happened a few months afterwards, in consequence ol his
being _bit_ in a bet, contracted when he was a “little elevated,” left
me the heir to his fine estate; I wish I could add, to his many and
noble virtues. I do not attempt to palliate deception. It is always
criminal. But, I am sure, no severity, no reprimand, no reproaches,
would have had half the effect which his kindness, his confidence, and
his generosity wrought on me. It reformed me thoroughly, and at once.
I did not see London again till I had graduated: and if my degree was
unaccompanied by brilliant honours, it did not disgrace my uncle’s
liberality or his name. Many years have elapsed since our last
interview; but I never reflect on it without pain and pleasure - pain,
that our last intercourse on earth should have been marked by the
grossest deception; and pleasure, that the serious reflections it
awakened, cured me for ever of all wish to deceive, and made the open
and straightforward path of life.


[Illustration: 308]


The Art of Tying the Cravat is an art without the knowledge of which all
others are useless.

[Illustration: 310]

It is the very key-stone to polite society; it is the _open sesame_ to
the highest honours both in church and state. Look at any individual
making his _entrée_ into a drawing-room, where there is a circle in the
slightest degree distinguished for taste and elegance. Is it his coat,
his waistcoat, his shirt, his inexpressibles, his silk stocking, or his
shoe, to which the glass of the critic, or the soft eye of beauty, is
principally directed? No! it is none of these. It is the cravat that
instantaneously stamps the character of its wearer. If it be put on
with a _recherché_ air - if its folds be correct, and its set _comme il
faut_ - then he may defy fate. Even though his coat should not be of the
last _cut_, and his waistcoat buttoned a whole button too high, still he
will carry everything before him. The man of fashion will own him for
an equal - beauty will smile upon him as a friend - and humbler aspirants
will gaze with fond and respectful admiration on the individual who
has so successfully studied the art of tying the cravat. But behold
the reverse of the picture! Suppose that the unhappy wretch is but an
ignorant pretender to a knowledge of the proper mode of covering that
part of the person which separates the shoulders from the chin - a being
who disgraces his laundress by the most barbarous use of her well-ironed
and folded neckcloths, starched with that degree of nicety, that a
single grain more or less would have made the elasticity too great or
the suppleness too little; - suppose this Yahoo, with a white cravat tied
round his neck like a rope, somewhat after the fashion most in
vogue among the poorer class of divinity students, were to enter a
drawingroom! What man on earth would not turn away from him in disgust?
The very poodle would snap at his heels, and the large tortoise-shell
cat upon the hearth-rug would elevate her back into the form of an arch,
bristle up her tail like a brush, and spit at him with sentiments of
manifest indignation. Ladies would shrink from the contamination of his
approach, and the dearest friend he had in the world would cut him dead
upon the spot. He might, perhaps, be a man of genius; but what is the
value of genius to a person ignorant of the “Art of Tying the Cravat?”
Let us inquire for a moment into the history of the cravat, and the
influence it has always held over society in general. “_L’art de mettre
sa cravate_,” says a French philosopher (Montesquieu, we think), “_est à
l’homme du monde ce que l’art de donner à diner est à l’homme d’etat_.”
It is believed that the Germans have the merit of inventing the cravat,
which was first used in the year 1636, by a regiment of Croats then in
their service. Croat, being pronounced Cro-at, was easily corrupted
into cravat. The Greeks and Romans usually wore their neck free and
uncovered, although in winter they sometimes wrapped a comforter round
their throats, which they called a _focalium_, from _fauces_. Augustus
Cæsar, who was particularly liable to catch cold, continually used a
_focalium_ or _sudarium_. Even now, it is only some of the European
nations who use cravats. Throughout all the east the throat is
invariably kept uncovered, and a white and well-turned neck is looked
upon as a great beauty, being, metaphorically compared to a tower of
ivory. In France, for a long period, the ruff, stiffened and curled in
single or double rows, was the favourite ornament of the neck; but when
Louis XIII. introduced the fashion of wearing the hair in long ringlets
upon the shoulders, the ruff was necessarily abandoned. In 1660, when
a regiment of Croats arrived in France, their singular _tour de cou_
attracted particular attention. It was made of muslin or silk, and the
ends, arranged _en rosette_, hung gracefully on the breast. The cro-at
(now cravat) became the passion; and the throat, which had hitherto
been comparatively free, lost its liberty for ever. Many varieties were
introduced; but a fine starched linen cloth acquired the ascendency over
all other, and retains it to this day. Abuses crept in, however, for the
fancy of the _èlégans_ ran wanton on the subject of pieces of muslin,
stiffeners, collars, and stocks. At one time it was fashionable to wear
such a quantity of bandaging round the neck, that shot has been known
to lodge in it with perfect impunity to the wearer, and few sabre
cuts could find their way through. Stocks are a variety of the cravat
species, which are now very general. Collars were the _avant-couriers_
of stocks, and were sometimes worn by the Egyptians and Greeks, made of
the richest metals, and ornamented with precious stones. Of late years,
a black silk cravat has come into great favour, and with a white or
light-coloured waistcoat especially, it has a manly and agreeable
effect. Bonaparte commonly wore a black silk cravat, and in it he fought
at Lodi, Marengo, and Austerlitz. It is somewhat remarkable, however,
that at Waterloo he wore a white neckcloth, although the day previous he
appeared in his black cravat. Some persons have attempted to introduce
coloured silk cravats, but, much to the honour of this country, the
attempt has failed. A cravat of red silk in particular, can be worn only
by a Manchester tailor.

Such is a very brief abstract of the rise and progress of cravats;
if they are ever destined to lose the place they at present hold in
society, we fervently trust that some Gibbon may appear, to furnish
us with a narrative of their decline and fall. But though all this
knowledge is valuable, it is only preliminary to the great art of tying
the cravat. _Hic labor, hoc opus_. The first tie - the parent of all the
others, the most important, and by far the most deeply interesting - is
the _noeud Gordien_, or Gordian knot. Alexander the Great would have
given half his empire to have understood it; - Brummell was a prouder, a
happier, and a greater man, when he first accomplished it. The mode of
forming this _noeud Gordien_ is the most important problem that can
be offered to the student of the cravat. It is no easy task; and we
seriously advise those, who are not initiated into the mysteries of
this delightful science, to make their first essays on a moderate-sized

We can confidently assure them, that, with tolerable perseverance, they
will be enabled to pursue their studies with pleasure and advantage,
and in a more profitable manner - on themselves. All the practice that is
necessary, need not occupy more time than a couple of hours a day!

After the _noeud Gordien_ come a host of others, all of which ought to
be known for the sake of variety, and that the tie may be made to suit
the occasion on which it is worn. There is the _cravate à l’Orientale_,
when the neckcloth is worn in the shape of a turban, and the ends form
a crescent; - the _cravate à l’Américaine_, which is simple, but not
much to our taste, and the prevailing colours are detestable, being
sea-green, striped blue, or red and white; - the _cravate collier de
cheval_, in which, after making the _noeud Gordien_, the ends are
carried round and fastened behind; a style much admired by ladies’ maids
and milliners, but in our opinion essentially vulgar, unless when used
out of doors; - the _cravate sentimentale_, in which a _rosette_ is
fastened at the top immediately under the chin, and which ought to
be worn only by dapper apprentices, who write “sweet things” on the
Sundays, or by Robert Montgomery, the author of “The Omnipresence of the
Deity” - a young man much puffed by Mr. William Jerdan; - the _cravate à
la Byron_, very free and _dégagée_, but submitted to by the noble poet,
only when accommodating himself to the _bien séances_ of society; - the
_cravate en cascade_, where the linen is brought down over the breast
something like a _jet d’eau_, and is a style in great vogue among valets
and butlers; - the _cravate à la Bergami_, and the _cravate de bal_,
where there is no knot at all, the ends being brought forward,
crossed on the breast, and then fastened to the braces; - the _cravate
mathématique_, grave and severe, where the ends descend obliquely, and
form two acute angles in crossing; - the _cravatte à l’Irelandoise_,
upon the same principle as the preceding, but somewhat more airy; - the
_cravate à la gastronome_, which is a narrow neckcloth, without starch,
fastened very slightly, so that in cases of incipient suffocation it
may be removed at a moment’s notice; - the _cravate de chasse_, or _à la
Diane_, which is worn only on the hunting field, and ought to be deep
green the _cravate en coquille_, the tie of which resembles a shell, and
is very pleasing, though a little finical; the _cravate romantique, à
la fidélité, à la Talma, à l’Italienne, à la Russe_, together with the
_cravate Jesuitique et diplomatique_, are interesting, and may all be
studied to advantage.

In concluding these observations, which are meant to rouse, if possible,
the attention of a slumbering public to a subject, the vast importance
of which the common herd of mankind are too apt to overlook, we cannot
help reflecting with feelings of the most painful kind on the very small
number of persons who are able to tie their cravats in any thing like
a Brummellian or Pe-tershamic style. We call upon our readers, if they
value their necks, to show a greater regard for their cravats. They may
rest assured that a well-tied cravat is better than the most flattering
letter of introduction, or most prepossessing expression of countenance.
An elegant _noeud Gordien_ has been known to secure for its possessor
5,000 L. a-year, and a handsome woman into the bargain. Let it not be
viewed as a light or trifling matter; a cravat, _comme il faut_, is
synonymous with happiness, and they who know the difference between neck
and nothing, will at once perceive that the “march of intellect” means
little more than a due appreciation of the value of the cravat, and as
near an approach as possible to perfection, in the art of tying it.


[Illustration: 322]


“In the year 1704, a gentleman, to all appearance, of large fortune,
took furnished lodgings in a house in Soho Square. After he had resided
there some weeks with his establishment, he lost his brother, who had
lived at Hampstead, and who, on his death-bed, particularly desired
to be interred in the family-vault at Westminster Abbey. The gentleman
requested his landlord to permit him to bring the corpse of his brother
to his lodgings, and to make arrangements there for the funeral. The
landlord, without hesitation, signified his compliance.

“The body, dressed in a white shroud, was accordingly brought in a very
handsome coffin, and placed in the great dining-room. The funeral was
to take place the next day, and the lodger and his servants went out to
make the necessary preparations for the solemnity. He staid out late;
but this was no uncommon thing. The landlord and his family, conceiving
that they had no occasion to wait for him, retired to bed as usual about
twelve o’clock. One maid-servant was left up to let him in, and to boil
some water, which he had desired might be ready for making tea on his
return. The girl was accordingly sitting all alone in the kitchen, when
a tall, spectre-looking figure entered, and clapped itself down in a
chair opposite to her.

“The maid was by no means one of the most timid of her sex; but she
was terrified beyond expression, lonely as she was, at this unexpected
apparition. Uttering a loud scream, she flew out like an arrow at a side
door, and hurried to the chamber of her master and mistress. Scarcely
had she awakened them, and communicated to the whole family some portion
of the fright with which she was herself overwhelmed, when the spectre,
enveloped in a shroud, and with a face of deathlike paleness, made
its appearance, and sat down in a chair in the bed-room, without their
having observed how it entered. The worst of all was, that this chair
stood by the door of the bedchamber, so that not a creature could get
away without passing close to the apparition, which rolled its glaring
eyes so frightfully, and so hideously distorted its features, that they
could not bear to look at it. The master and mistress crept under the
bed-clothes, covered with profuse perspiration, while the maid-servant
sunk nearly insensible by the side of the bed.

“At the same time the whole house seemed to be in an uproar; for though
they had covered themselves over head and ears, they could still hear
the incessant noise and clatter, which served to increase their terror.

“At length all became perfectly still in the house. The landlord
ventured to raise his head, and to steal a glance at the chair by the
door; but, behold, the ghost was gone! Sober reason began to resume
its power. The poor girl was brought to herself after a good deal of
shaking. In a short time, they plucked up sufficient courage to quit
the bed-room, and to commence an examination of the house, which
they expected to find in great disorder. Nor were their anticipations
unfounded. The whole house had been stripped by artful thieves, and the
gentleman had decamped without paying for his lodging. It turned
out that he was no other than an accomplice of the notorious Arthur
Chambers, who was executed at Tyburn in 1706; and that the supposed
corpse was this arch rogue himself, who had whitened his hands and face
with chalk, and merely counterfeited death. About midnight he quitted
the coffin, and appeared to the maid in the kitchen. When she flew up
stairs, he softly followed her, and, seated, at the door of the chamber,
he acted as a sentinel, so that his industrious accomplices were enabled
to plunder the house without the least molestation.”


[Illustration: 327]


The following tale is taken from a work by M. Loeve Veimars, entitled
‘Les Manteaux.’ The scene is laid in Germany, and the story opens with
the election of a magistrate of the little city of Birling. Full of
his new dignity, he repairs to his home, where he acquaints his patient
wife, to whom he is in the habit of playing the tyrant, with the
accession to his importance. His old friend, Waldau, the town clerk,
comes to ask him if he has any commands for Felsenbourg, the seat of
the administration, whither he is about to repair. The new councillor
requests him to deliver a letter to his younger brother, Maurice, who
had quitted his home suddenly, and of whom he has heard nothing until
very recently, and who has now applied to him for a share of their
father’s property, or some pecuniary assistance. The answer of the elder
brother is at once unsatisfactory and unfeeling: he tells him that
their parent died without any fortune, and concludes with a sneer at his
youthful irregularities. The councillor’s amiable spouse is affected by
her husband’s cruelty; Waldau’s dress is more consistent with his scanty
means than adapted to the inclemency of the weather, and she expresses a
hope that his travelling costume is a warmer one.

‘Alas! no,’ replies Waldau; ‘I had a cloak, but I have given it to my
grandmother, who is confined to her arm-chair with the gout, and I am in
truth, setting off like the prodigal son.’

‘Dear Philip,’ said Marie to her husband, in a supplicating tone, ‘lend
him yours.’

‘Mine!’ replied the councillor, ‘indeed I cannot; but my late father’s
is somewhere upstairs, and I will look it out for you, Waldau.’

Marie blushed at her husband’s selfishness. ‘It is old, indeed,’ said
she, ‘but it is large and stout. There is nothing splendid about it,
Waldau; it is simple and useful, like its former possessor; and I
beseech you, when you shall see our brother Maurice, give it to him in
my name. It may be useful to him, notwithstanding its homely appearance;
at all events, while it must recall to Maurice’s recollection the memory
of his father, it may also bring him wise reflections.’

She bids him also tell Maurice how much she feels for him, and regrets
that she is unable to offer him any assistance. Waldau wraps himself
in the cloak, and proceeds to Felsenbourg, which he reaches, but not
without being overturned on the road. He is rather hurt by the fall, but
not so much as to prevent his repairing immediately to find Maurice.

The evening was somewhat advanced, and the streets of the city, very
different from those of the obscure but peaceful town in which Waldau
dwelt, were crowded still with passengers on horseback and on foot.
Waldau observed directly before him a portico well lighted, over which
he saw inscribed, in large characters, “The Palace of Felsenbourg.” He
entered with some timidity, and looked around for some one who might
direct him in this vast building, when a young man, passing close
by him, attracted his attention. He was clothed in a court dress,
glittering with embroidery, and held in his hand the hat of a noble,
adorned with large white plumes. The old town-clerk drew himself up
hastily, but who can describe his surprise when he saw, in the half
glance which his awe permitted him to cast upon this person, that he was
the banished son, his early friend; in short, Maurice himself? Waldau
was petrified with astonishment: could he believe his eyes, or did they
abuse him? He wished to speak, but the words died upon his lips; all
that he could do was to follow with his eyes this unexpected figure.

When he recovered the use of his faculties, the object who had deprived
him of them, was no longer before him; but he saw him as he withdrew
beneath the shadows of the columns, by the splendour of his garments,
the gems on which glittered beneath the lamps which filled the vault.
A little man dressed in black now approached, and dispelled the ideas
which were bewildering his brain. ‘Will you be so obliging,’ he said to
this person, ‘as to tell me the name of the gentleman who passed us just

‘It is Mr. Wiesel.’

‘It is Maurice, then! Good heavens! but tell me what part does he play

‘A very important part, Sir: nothing less than that of the prince’s
confidant,’ replied the little man, gravely, and with a low bow.

The honest old man is overjoyed, and, without pressing his inquiries any
further, he writes in all haste to the councillor, to inform him of his
brother’s good fortune. Upon the receipt of the letter, the elder Wiesel
sets out for Felsenbourg, frightened to death lest Waldau should have
delivered the unkind epistle, which he now wishes he had never written.
Poor Waldau is, in the mean time, suffering from the effects of his
fall; and, on the day following his arrival, he finds himself unable
to rise from his bed. To crown his misfortunes, his money is exhausted;
and, relying upon the generosity of Maurice’s temper, and ever doubting
that the prince’s confidant is well able to assist him, he writes to him
for a loan, requests an introduction to the minister, and his interest
in procuring the remission of a tax. Maurice hastens to him immediately,
and, after the first congratulations are over, the following
conversation ensues: -

‘To speak seriously, my dear Waldau,’ said Maurice, ‘your request for
money distresses me, because I am not in a situation to comply with it;
but, as to your other request, I have laughed heartily at it. That
I should introduce you to the minister! that I should procure the
remission of a tax! pray, for whom do you take me?’

‘For whom? Good heaven!’ replied the old man, cursing in his heart all
courtiers and their impudence; ‘why, for the favorite of his highness,
for his Jonathan, for the elect of the tribe, the _primus a rege_.’

‘My poor friend,’ said Maurice, ‘is more ill than I thought; and the joy
I feel at meeting him again, is damped at this discovery. It must be the
fever, dear Waldau, which has thus troubled your judgment.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Waldau, ‘I suppose so; _aegria somma?_ said Waldau
bitterly. ‘It was one of those delusions which a fever works upon sick
brains, that I beheld yesterday traversing the palace of Felsenbourg to
go to the court; it was in a delirium that I beheld him shining in gold
and jewels, _gemmis atque auro_.’

‘I, going to the court V ‘You, or who else is the prince’s favorite?

‘The prince’s favorite! Dear Waldau, am I to laugh or to weep at these

‘_Auri sacra fames_, the thirst of wealth will soon render you incapable
of doing either the one or the other.’

‘How can you thus deceive yourself!’

‘He deceived himself too, then - the little man in black, who followed
the glittering Weisel under the portico of the palace.’

‘Ha, ha, what charming simplicity!’ cried Maurice, laughing heartily.
‘Still the same honest, excellent, innocent Waldau. - I a courtier, I
a favourite! this is indeed an everlasting joke. Know, then, my poor
credulous friend, that I am a member of a strolling company who are
engaged to play in the hotel of the Count of Felsenbourg. I played
yesterday the part of the _Confidante_, in the new piece; and the little
man in black, of whom you speak, is the head tailor, who had just
been fitting me with a coat of scarlet serge, covered with tinsel and
spangles, and to which habit I am indebted for the respect with which
you have overwhelmed me.’

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