saving turn, always wore old clothes, made by the father of his nurse Euryclea, old Ops of Ithaca, who was the sole schneider of that celebrated isle. Diomede-a clever fellow with superior notions-was so hard up that he was glad, when he met with a distant relation on the opposite side, to gammon him, during the pauses of battle, into an exchange of equipments. Nestor, when out of armour, wore duffle. His son Antilochus was undoubtedly a very fine young man, and would have dressed creditably had not his allowance been so small. Hector had a good military, melo-dramatic wardrobe; but Andromache was too much of a nursingmother and a mawsey to care about her husband's appearance at home, and Hector would not go to balls. Eneas evidently was a fighting Quaker, with something of the bellicose propensities and carping disposition of John Bright. But Machaon and Podalirius, throughout the whole period of the Trojan war, dressed like gentlemen, maintained the dignity of their order, and doubtless, as they were not salaried, picked up an infinity of fecs, to which they were most justly entitled.

We have never been able to understand why Jews in general, and stockjobbers in particular, should be so addicted to radiant and gorgeous apparel. That tendency, which is so notorious as almost to have passed into a proverb, can hardly be attributed to a reaction on the part of the descendants of Abraham, consequent on the abrogation of the harsh laws of the middle ages, which forbade them to appear in public otherwise than in sad-coloured raiment. In the absence of historical evidence to the contrary, we rather incline to the opinion that those laws were pressly framed for the purpose of preventing the Jews from indulging their hereditary propensity for personal decoration. It is impossible to read Sir Walter Scott's description of Rebecca of York, as she appeared in the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouche, without feeling a conviction that the great artist was merely extending in detail a sketch which he had drawn from personal observation of some particoloured Rose of Sharon. Far

ex

back into the patriarchal ages extends this singular appetite of the Jew. The brethren of Joseph hated him because of his coat of many colours; for envy begets hatred, and it was envy that rankled in their souls. And now, when all restrictions are removed, and every man may dress as seemeth good in his own eyes, the children of the captivity delight to cover themselves with all the hues of the parterre. It would almost seem as if they were impelled thereto by some mysterious impulse of nature-as if gorgeous display, and contrasts of colour, were to them physical necessities-so universally do they affect the tints of the tulip, the peacock, and the rainbow. This peculiarity would have been less remarkable had the Jews, along with their oriental faith, retained or reintroduced the oriental costume. But they have voluntarily chosen to give up one-half of their ancient characteristics. Dwelling in the tents of Japhet, they have discarded the raiment of Shem-a compromise which, however advantageous in a worldly point of view, strikes us as being rather antagonistic to their extremely venerable traditions. To us it has always appeared that the adoption by the Jews of the modern European dress, which we must confess to be far less picturesque and even convenient than that of the Orientals, was something very pusillanimous. Shylock, when he walks on the Rialto, has no dignity without the gaberdine. Quakers are respected, not more on account of their general integrity, than because they bear about with them the evident marks of their profession; and we never meet in road or fair with a blue-bonneted West-country Covenanter, without experiencing a certain feeling of reverence for the motive which impels him to continue his open testimony on behalf of his peculiar tenets, albeit we should be sorry to subscribe to the doctrine fulminated by Peden. We are by no means extravagant in our notions, nor would we push national characteristics to an extreme. For example, we can see no propriety in an individual strutting through the streets of London in a kilt and sporran, simply because he is of Celtic blood,

and claims the honours of Captain of M'Alcohol. When his foot is on his native heath, let him rejoice, if he so pleases, in the ease and ventilation of the philabeg; but when he arrives in London, whether for business or pleasure, it would be advisable for him, were it only from considerations of decency, to conform to the ordinary costume of Britain. The tartan has long since ceased to be a symbol of any kind of possible or intelligible opinion. The man who puts on the garb of old Gaul to the south of the Highland line, does not intend thereby to signify that he is an enemy to the House of Hanover, that he desires a repeal of the Union, or that he is an adherent of the Pope. He is simply a blockhead who has transformed himself into a Guy for the kind and charitable purpose of astonishing the natives; and he is invariably laughed at and sometimes hooted for his pains.

Modern civilisation, and enlarged and rapid intercourse, have done a great deal towards establishing uniformity of costume throughout Europe, in the case of the higher classes of society. Coat, waistcoat, trousers, and hat, are common to England, France, Russia, Germany, Italy, and Spain; and even the dogged Turk, as if desirous to obliterate the memory of the fact that he is at best an intruder on this side of the Bosphorus, has made some advances towards the adoption of the standard dress of Europe. Admirers of the picturesque may sigh over this as involving a wholesale sacrifice of the effects produced by contrast of colour and design; but, to our poor thinking, these aesthetic considerations are more than counterbalanced by the decided advantages which accrue to the traveller from that acknowledged uniformity. It is not pleasant to be stared at and almost rabbled in the streets of a foreign town on account of the peculiarity of your costume; or to feel that in a theatre you are made the centrepoint of attraction for the gaze of a hundred opera-glasses. It is something to be assured that neither in Copenhagen nor Madrid will your ordinary dress attract unusual attention, and that you may even glide

through the purlieus of Constantinople and Pera without being openly cursed for a Giaour by the foulmouthed followers of the Prophet. Not that you are mistaken by the natives for one of themselves. Few of the family of famous John Bull but carry about with them the unmistakable marks of their origin and paternity. A certain bluffness, gruffness, and self-sufficiency betray the Englishman in every part of the globe; for he does not possess that instinctive aptitude, and chameleon dexterity, which enable the Russian to counterfeit with ease the habits and peculiarities of any people among whom he may chance to sojourn. But the general uniformity of costume, if it does not disguise the stranger, at least relieves him from the annoyances of impertinent curiosity, and saves him from the temptation of making himself grossly ridiculous by assuming the dress of the natives.

For it is an undoubted fact, for which it would be difficult to assign a satisfactory psychological reason, that nine people out of ten have a secret hankering after strange dress, and would almost sacrifice their ears for the privilege of exhibiting themselves in a garb widely different from that which they habitually wear. Hence no entertainment is half so popular in the higher circles as a fancy-ball, which allows full scope for the indulgence of the exotic, antiquarian, or medieval tastes of every man-not to say woman; for the ladies (heaven bless them!) have the keys of the wardrobe in their own hands, and may introduce new fashions at will, confident that no change of costume whatever can mar their perfect beauty. But men have not the same great privilege, and therefore they are infinitely more extravagant and grotesque whenever they can avail themselves of a pretext for entering into temporary masquerade. And, in truth, a fancy-ball is about as queer a sight as could regale the eyes of a cynic. We wonder if Thomas Carlyle, that intrepid denouncer of shams, was ever present at such an assembly. If not, we would entreat him to avail himself of the very earliest opportunity of witnessing that kind of spectacle;

for it would give him more substantial food for digestion than he has browsed upon for many a year. With what hearty zest would our guide, philosopher, and friend, pitch into the Unveracities and Phantasm Captains who range themselves in fancy quadrilles! A pure Cockney Fergus MacIvor selects Queen Anne Boleyn as his partner. Opposite them stands a Cavalier of the time of Charles the First, whose daily occupation is the transfer of stock, toying with the hand of the White Maid of Avenel. Saladin and a Nun, a Suliote and a Fishwife, complete the motley quadrangle. Now sounds the waltz; and there they go, in a demoniąc whirl, which might have turned the brain even of the eccentric Callot, and which would have defied his pencil to represent. No costume, save that of our first parents, seems wanting to the show. A bronzed Pharaoh seizes upon Highland Mary-Marcus Brutus, forgetful of his Portia, lays violent hands upon Marie Antoinette -and Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, whose gyrations are distinguished by their rapid eccentricity, is breathing soft nonsense into the ear of yon Druidess with the wreath of mistletoe. Pluffy Tom Waddell, whose rotundity of carcass has gained for him the endearing sobriquet of the "Oyster-barrel," believes that he is personating Romeo; and, in a flaming suit of carnation slashed with blue, rolls through the ball-room as merrily as a porpoise in the tide-way. George M'Whirter, Writer to Her Majesty's Signet, is appallingly ferocious as Alessandro Massaroni, with a devil's dozen of poniards stuck into his belt, and as much particoloured tape swathed around his legs as would girdle Arthur's Seat. And lo! in all the glories of wampum and mocassin complete, with tomahawk and scalping-knife, stalks Quipps the doctor, no unapt representative of Chingachgook, the last

of the Mohicans!

If for no other reason than that they furnish a safety-valve for the escape of masquerading vanity, we applaud fancy-balls, and earnestly recommend their multiplication. By affording an occasional opportunity for eccentric display, they mate

VOL. LXXXV.-NO. DXXI.

rially lessen the chances of public exposure and ridicule; and moreover, they greatly contribute to the custom and profits of the tailor. It is fit and proper that certain saturnalia should be observed, in order that the more exuberant of our race should get rid of their superfluous folly-a maxim well understood and practically carried out by the Continental nations in their celebration of the annual carnival. It is impossible to expect that we, coldblooded and sanctimonious Northmen, should ever adopt the customs of the sunny south, and dedicate one real holiday, when all classes might meet and mingle, to mirth, merriment, fun, and harmless absurdity. It is not in our nature to do so-the climate forbids it; and even were it otherwise, the denunciations from a thousand pulpits, louder than the thunders of the Vatican, would rebuke us for the act of folly. So that poor Momus, in terror of clerical revilement, and despairing of charitable construction, must needs keep himself within doors, rarely venturing to walk beneath the canopy of heaven, unless disguised as a freemason, or in the garb of a votary of Saint Crispin.

Yet so marvellous is the appetite for strange dress, that even men of talents and education cannot free themselves from its thraldom. Who has forgotten Goldsmith's pride in his peach-coloured coat-that garment on which he set greater store than on the possession of his singularly sweet and most expressive genius? Radiant through the long vision of years shines the form of Jamie Boswell, advocate, and heirapparent of Auchinleck, moving through the throng at the Stratford Shakespeare jubilee in the guise of a Corsican mountaineer, with the printed legend of "CORSICA BOSWELL" pasted on his hat, lest haply the spectators might ignore the importance of the inner man. Smile we at that? If we do so smile, let us reserve a broad grin, worthy of exhibition through a horse-collar, for the inexpiable idiocy of the men who, in our own day, not only imitate, but even transcend his example. We have spoken, not in flattering or

T

commendatory terms, of kilted exhibitions made by genuine descendants of the Gael in the streets of London and elsewhere; and we have hinted that, when they come down from their mountains, our inheritors of the fame of Ossian-be they of the tribe of MacShimei, or Caberfae, or Chattan, or Coila-should submit to the bondage of broadcloth, and array their nether man in trousers. That is our deliberate opinion; but we candidly admit that the counterargument may be maintained with plausibility. In favour of their native dress are title and usage; and their abandonment of it in foreign parts is undoubtedly in one sense a concession. But what think you of the Cockney, or the Saxon who is no Cockney, assuming the garb of the Gael? That is a question which demands, if not an immediate answer, at least very deliberate consideration; for it is a singular fact, that in spite of the alleged depopulation of the Highlands, so pathetically bewailed by our excellent and esteemed friend Professor Blackie, and other patriotic opposers of emigration and sheepfarming, there never was a time when the rage for tartans in Scotland was so preposterous as now. Clans previously unheard of; families that never showed even so late as 1715 or 1745, lay claim to distinctive patterns-claims which we do not feel ourselves called on to challenge, seeing that they injure no one, and do undoubtedly contribute to the manufacturing welfare of the country. What is it to us if the descendant of old Geordie Tawse, once known as a thriving butter-merchant in Dundee, signs himself MacTawse of Gilliecallum, and when asked to be a steward at a county ball, asserts his chieftainship as The MacTawse? Our interests are not affected, nor our tranquillity of mind disturbed, because Davie Mucklewrath, born at the Kirk of Shotts, hath been pleased to celtify his somewhat rugged patronymic, and to vapour in a philabeg as M'Lareth. But why, in the name of absurdity, should Englishmen, who have as little affinity with the Celts as with the Sclavonians-who abominate haggis, and cough at the pungent usquebagh-deem it necessary

because they have rented a Highland moor, to assume the Highland dress, and expose their poor innocent limbs to the asperities of the northern blasts? We could understand and might excuse that monstrous act of folly, if the unhappy people who practise it could aver that it gave them even the slightest sensation of physical pleasure. But not one of them dares to make such an averment. If he did, no one would believe him. The knees, curiously mottled, and knocking together with cold, betray the awful discomfort of the infatuated Cockney; whilst his hands, debarred from their usual place of refuge, the breeches pocket, keep fumbling among the cairngorms as if afflicted by incipient palsy. How can it be otherwise? Look at the real Highlander, and you will see that nature has provided his limbs with a thick felt of short hair, similar to that which adorns the extremities of a bull, so that he cares neither for wind, nor rain, nor sleet, but trots over the muir, in glory, comfort, and in joy, towards the glen where the small still, undescried by the exciseman, lends fragrance to the surrounding atmosphere, and refreshment to the hilarious mountaineer. Whereas on the spindles of the Saxon, encased from childhood upwards in broadcloth or kerseymere, with an inner coating of substantial flannel drawers, there groweth no hair at all, or at best a silky down, no more suitable for protection against an ordinary mist than is the coat of a Marmoset monkey to resist the deluge of a waterspout. The cuticle of the Gael, by exposure, has assumed the consistency of leather-that of the Saxon, by coddling, is reduced to the tenuity of gold-beater's leaf. A kick from a red-deer would hardly wound the one the mere attrition of the heather would make sanguinary scratches on the other. And then -the midges!

What motive is it, we ask again, that tempts those unhappy people to court exposure and lingering death? For beyond mere discomfort, which is endurable and may pass away, is the ghastly fiend of rheumatism, who has already run his finger over their

flaccid sinews, felt their crackling joints, and poked at their houghs, even as a butcher pokes the hindquarters of an ox when he meditates its conversion into beef. Alas for poor Neddy Waverley! Long and sorely will he rue the day when, yielding to the insidious eloquences of that Celtic Stultz, Shemus a Snachad, he consented to be measured for a full suit of the M'Tavish hunting-tartan, specially selected on account of the brilliancy of its sulphurous and fiery hues! Many a time, in the weary watches of the night, when writhing in exceeding agony, each nerve being converted into a wire heated in the furnace of Tartarus, will he recall the memory of that hideous day when Ian Dhu, the forester, made him crawl for many hours, in a state of seminudity, up the channel of an icecold burn in quest of an imaginary deer! What motive, we say, except vanity-vanity of the most paltry and contemptible kind, can lead men, otherwise rational, to endure the shame of so much exposure, and tortures of such exquisite refinement? But we preach to the winds. We have no hope whatever of being able to restrain the Saxon from this deplorable folly. We shall see them next season, as we have seen them a thousand times in the years that are gone by, lounging at inn doors or strutting through the streets of Inverness in the garb of chieftains, to the immense amusement of the grinning hostlers and the ill-disguised scorn of the keepers, who batten upon the plunder of the Sassenach.

Notwithstanding the general uniformity of European costume, which 'we have already noted with approbation, there are certain differences in style peculiar to the several nations. In Germany, dress, apart from official costume, signifies nothing more than an outward covering for the body, constructed without any regard to symmetry, taste, or elegance. Very rarely, indeed, do you meet with a German, especially of the central and southern states, whose clothes do not appear to have been put on with a pitchfork; in fact, the old remark of Tacitus, that a German pays no attention to the orna

ment of his person, is even yet applicable. "Near the frontier," says he, "on the borders of the Rhine, the inhabitants wear something resembling clothes, but with an air of neglect that shows them altogether indifferent about the choice." It is right, however, to exempt Berlin and Hamburg from this general censure, for in those cities you do occasionally meet with individuals who have bestowed some attention upon the texture and style of their raiment, which is fashioned rather after the British than the French model. It must also be kept in mind that in all countries where the military service is regarded as the peculiar and appropriate profession of the nobility and gentry, the aesthetics of dress receive very little attention. Those who should take the lead in setting the fashion appear constantly in uniform; and the cultivation of ordinary apparel being left almost entirely to the burgher class, whose taste is seldom refined, it follows as a natural consequence that gross slovenry prevails. On the other hand, the Dutch, a commercial and wealthy people, exhibit considerable taste in dress, being particular as to fit and quality, and never launching into extravagance. The Hollander is not sufficiently understood or appreciated in this country. The absurd idea that he wears an indefinite number of breeches, and resembles a walking balloon, still lingers among us; whereas Counsellor Pleydell was much nearer the mark in his statement to Julia Mannering: "The Dutch are a much more accomplished people in point of gallantry than their volatile neighbours are willing to admit. I can assure you, in spite of your scorn, that if you want to see handsome men you must go to Holland. The prettiest fellow I ever saw was a Dutchman." Of the Swedes we shall not speak. The Frenchman dresses showily, but he does not, to our thinking, dress well. There is always something outré and extravagant in his appearance, as if the tailor merely considered his customer as a pin or lay-figure on which to display his skill in the art of fabri cating garments. There can be no doubt that the Frenchman dresses