its speechless paralysis, faltered forth “what a cravat!” What a cravat indeed!  Hundreds that had, a moment before, exulted in unwonted freedom, bowed before it with the homage of servile adoration.  What a cravat!  There it stood; there was no doubting its entity, no believing it an illusion.  There it stood, smooth and stiff, yet light and almost transparent; delicate as the music of Ariel, yet firm as the spirit of Regulus; bending with the grace of Apollo’s locks, yet erect with the majesty of the Olympian Jove:  without a wrinkle, without an indentation.  What a cravat!  The regent “saw and shook;” and uttering a faint gurgle from beneath the wadded bag which surrounded his royal thorax, he was heard to whisper with dismay, “D—­n him! what a cravat!” The triumph was complete.

It is stated, upon what authority we know not, that his royal highness, after passing a sleepless night in vain conjectures, despatched at an early hour, one of his privy-counsellors to Brummel, offering carte blanche if he would disclose the secret of that mysterious cravat.  But the “atrox animus Catonis” disdained the bribe.  He preferred being supplicated, to being bought, by kings.  “Go,” said he to the messenger, with the spirit of Marius mantling in his veins, “Go, and tell your master that you have seen his master.”

For the truth of another anecdote, connected with this cravat, we have indisputable evidence.  A young nobleman of distinguished talents and high pretensions as to fortune and rank, saw this fatal band, and eager to advance himself in the rolls of fashion, retired to his chamber to endeavour to penetrate the method of its construction.  He tried every sort of known, and many sorts of unknown stiffeners to accomplish the end—­paper and pasteboard, and wadding, shavings, and shingles, and planks,—­all were vainly experienced.  Gargantua could not have exhibited a greater invention of expedients than he did; but vainly.  After a fortnight of the closest application, ardour of study and anxiety of mind combined, brought him to the brink of the grave.  His mother having ascertained the origin of his complaint, waited upon Brummel, who was the only living man that could remove it.  She implored him, by every human motive, to say but one word, to save the life of her son and prevent her own misery.  But the tyrant was immoveable, and the young man expired a victim of his sternness.

When, at length, yielding to that strong necessity which no man can control, Brummel was obliged, like Napoleon, to abdicate, the mystery of that mighty cravat was unfolded.  There was found, after his departure to Calais, written on sheet of paper upon his table, the following epigram of scorn:  “STARCH IS THE MAN.”  The cravat of Brummel was merely--starched!  Henceforth starch was introduced into every cravat in Europe.

Brummel still lives, an obscure consul in a petty European town.