13. There may be more pathos in the fall of a collar, or the curl of a lock, than the shallow think for. Should we be so apt as we are now to compassionate the misfortunes, and to forgive the insincerity of Charles I., if his pictures had pourtrayed him in a bob wig and a pigtail? Vandyke was a greater sophist than Hume. 14. The most graceful principle of dress is neatness--the most vulgar is preciseness. 15. Dress contains the two codes of morality--private and public. Attention is the duty we owe to others--cleanliness that which we owe to ourselves. 16. Dress so that it may never be said of you “What a well dressed man!”--but, “What a gentlemanlike man!” 17. Avoid many colours; and seek, by some one prevalent and quiet tint, to sober down the others. Apelles used only four colours, and always subdued those which were more florid, by a darkening varnish. 18. Nothing is superficial to a deep observer! It is in trifles that the mind betrays itself. “In what part of that letter,” said a king to the wisest of living diplomatists, “did you discover irresolution?”--“In its ns and gs!” was the answer. 19. A very benevolent man will never shock the feelings of others, by an excess either of inattention or display; you may doubt, therefore, the philanthropy both of a sloven and a fop. 20. There is an indifference to please in a stocking down at heel--but there may be a malevolence in a diamond ring. 21. Inventions in dressing should resemble Addison’s definition of fine writing, and consists of “refinements which are natural, without being obvious.” 22. He who esteems trifles for themselves, is a trifler--he who esteems them for the conclusions to be drawn from them, or the advantage to which they can be put, is a philosopher. CHAPTER XLV. Tantot, Monseigneur le Marquis a cheval--Tantot, Monsieur du Mazin de bout!--L’Art de se Promener a Cheval. My cabriolet was at the door, and I was preparing to enter, when I saw a groom managing, with difficulty, a remarkably fine and spirited horse. As, at that time, I was chiefly occupied with the desire of making as perfect an equine collection as my fortune would allow, I sent my cab boy (vulgo Tiger) to inquire of the groom, whether the horse was to be sold, and to whom it belonged. “It was not to be disposed of,” was the answer, “and it belonged to Sir Reginald Glanville.” The name thrilled through me: I drove after the groom, and inquired Sir Reginald Glanville’s address. His house, the groom (whose dark coloured livery was the very perfection of a right judgment) informed me, was at No.--Pall Mall. I resolved to call that morning, but first I drove to Lady Roseville’s to talk about Almack’s and the beau monde, and be initiated into the newest scandal and satire of the day.