An inspection of a buck in this month of February, anno domini eighteen hundred and fifty-two, will convey to the mind of the spectator ideas of a pair of very thin legs, surmounted by a very short specimen of an overcoat, with monstrous buttons and wide sleeves—a cravat with a bow about six inches wide and three inches broad, with fringes at the ends—a standing shirt collar, running up to a very sharp point—something like a face, covered with hair over what, in Christians, are the chin, cheek and upper-lip—and a hat thereon. Simile fails in ability to convey any adequate notion of this figure. Two pipes, bowl downward and stems upward, might give an idea of the lower extremity of the dandy. We will carry out the nicotian metaphor by placing on the upper portions of the stems a paper of “Mrs. Miller’s best”—the short-cut, oozing from the top of the torn paper, will do very well for the hair on the face—a tobacco-box placed on the whole, will give some idea of a figure, which, if greatly magnified, would in the outline much resemble a modern fop. The clothing of an exquisite is a work of time and science. We can imagine how much of the labor is done. But there are two subjects, in the making of a fop, that have long been considered puzzles. One of these questions is—how does he manage to tie those huge bows in his cravat, which stand out just below his chin, giving him thereabout the appearance of a cherubim, all head and wings? What a work of fixing must there be before he gets the knot exactly right! What gazing into the mirror—what pulling of ends—what twisting of folds—what tying and untying! Every thing must be just so. There must be no wrinkles—all must be smooth and “ship-shape,” or the dandy so remiss upon this subject would be avoided forever by his associates. It has been asserted that a smart exquisite is able to tie his cravat in half an hour, but the general average of time is believed to be an hour and a half. There is a melancholy instance on record, of a fop who once took three hours to fix the bow of his cravat. The sad occurrence took place on what should have been his wedding-day. He commenced the work at seven o’clock in the morning and had “a nice knot” at ten. Unfortunately, the hour of the wedding was fixed at nine. The anxious intended wailed impatiently at the altar for her expected lord, for half an hour, and then concluding that he meant to insult her, went away in a huff, so that the unfortunate dandy, by being too particular as to tying a nice knot, lost the opportunity of fastening a nicer knot, and worse still, a bride “worth a hundred thousand.” This inquiry into the time occupied at the cravat, though very interesting, must yield in importance to another, to wit:—How do dandies get into their boots?