twice "pulled up" and nearly decapitated in a
row for not salaaming, "and all that rubbish."

And now, while I am in this tavern den,
trying to eat some horseflesh stew, there
stands before me a ragged Greek vagabond,
crafty as Ulysses, voluble as the winged-worded
Pericles, who, in hopes of a stray piastre,
harangues me and the engineers on a certain
English pasha to whom he was once right hand
man. His gestures alone would be eloquence,
for he beats his chest, and rends his dirty merino
waistcoat.

"He (English pasha) keep white horse, black
horse, red horse, blue horse, every sort horse;
and I drive him, whip him, saddle him, break
him, 'cos he (English pasha) Sultan great friend
—every day at palace. I too at palace. I eat
lamb, pistachio-nut. I eat kibob (very nice
kibob), I drink shirab and champagne wine.
I wear scarlet jacket and fustanella—white
fustanella—servant under me—horse under me
—money—drink—all right—all good. All
at once come wicked man to English sultan,
whisper ear—say, 'Take care, Anastase bad
man, rogue-man.' English sultan call me, tell
me, flog me—drive out faithful Anastase—
take away horses—everyting. Now, Anastase
dirty man, poor man, thief man (laughs
ironically), no raki, no kibob, no drink, no eat. Go
'bout ask good rich Englishman for little money.
Thank, sir (smiles), drink health!"

CONCERNING CRAVATS.

We must not despair. Everything will have
its history told in its turn. Already English
umbrellas and French lamps have their respective
histories in print; then why should not the
kind protector of the human windpipe have its
useful story related? The art of tying the
cravat was written, some considerable number of
years since, by an author who signed himself the
Baron de l'Empesé; but, although we are assured
that the baron brought the patience of a
Benedictine monk to his works, he did not exhaust
his subject. Could the history of the cravat be
told in a hundred printed pages, and with only
five illustrative plates? As well endeavour to
exhaust the history of England on a sheet of
notepaper. The worthy historian of the cravat must
consider the men who wear cravats, and the
great men who have not worn them. The
baron reminds us that the cravat makes
the man. Is it not, then, of importance
to the world to learn that M. de
Chateaubriand and M. de Villèle, two eminent
statesmen, could never decently dispose their
cravats? Could M. de Villèle conduct a straightforward
policy with his neckcloth awry? No.
It is to the honour of the baron that, thirty
years ago, he discovered a new point of view
from which men might advantageously look upon
human affairs; that view was from man's necktie!
The wearer of the Gordian knot must have
been a distinct individual from the creatures who
wore Talma knots, or Bergami knots, or cascade
knots, or giraffe knots, or gastronomic knots.
We should unhesitatingly declare that an
inclination to the Gordian knot betrayed a tendency
to diplomacy. Did Brillat Savarin wear a
gastronomic knot, and was Cuvier's windpipe
hidden by the giraffe? History is silent on these
important points.

There have been dabblers, however, in the
history of the neckcloth, who have collected
materials, suggested chapters, and run up hasty
theories. There have been controversies on the
origin of cravats, in which the focalia of the
Romans make a prominent figure, and in which
the pretensions of the Croats are supported and
rebutted.

How the neckband of the shirt grew into the
prodigious frills of the sixteenth century; how
these linen walls fell over upon the manly
shoulders of the Puritans of the seventeenth
century; how the cravats became effeminate
under the second Charles; are progresses which
belong to the future historian—to the coming
man.

The cravat proper, with its elegantly adjusted
folds, it is stoutly asserted, was first brought into
France by French officers, on their return from.
Germany, in sixteen thirty-six. As stoutly is it
maintained by Furetière, against Ménage, that
the word cravat is nothing more than a corruption
of Croat. The Croats, who guarded the
Turkish frontiers of Austria, and who acted as
scouts on the flanks of the army, wore linen
round their necks, tied in front, the officers wearing
muslin, or silk. When France organised a
regiment on the model of the Croats, these linen
Croats, or cravats, were also imitated. The
Royal Cravat was the name of a French regiment
to the time of the French Revolution. So
much for the origin of the cravat.

We are reminded that the cravat did not
make its way suddenly; since, in the archives
of the Calvinistic college in Languedoc, where
Bayle was educated, may be seen an order,
commanding the scholars to wear black clothing, and
not to indulge in canes, cravats, nor other things
that violate modesty. But what would the
learned doctors of Puylawrens have thought of
splendid Louis the Fourteenth's cravats, with
scarlet and sky-blue satin knots, and their
lace falls? Not that the old Calvinists could
have commanded much attention had they, been
in the neighbourhood of great Louis; French
vivacity and audacity had their play there; the
humour of the moment was the law of the
moment; and this humour took its graceful turns
now and then. For instance, the princes,
dressing hastily for the battle of Steinkerque,
cast their cravats negligently round their throats.
After the victory, charming women, looking
lovingly at the victors, adorned themselves with
gracefully careless little kerchiefs, and called
them Steinkerques. Advertisers have vulgarised
these feminine gentillesses of old. It is true
that Parisian ladies wear, at this moment,
Solferino mantillas, and that flâneurs are
conspicuous in Cavour shirt-collars; but we know
that here are only, so many twopences made by