“During my travels I have observed that no people appreciate the peculiar beauties of the country they inhabit.  No one admires his own physiognomy; every one would like to resemble some one else.  Spaniards and Turks make endless excuses for being handsome and picturesque.  The Andalusian apologizes to you for not wearing a coat and round hat.  The Arnaout, whose costume is the most gorgeous and elegant that has ever been worn by the human form divine, sighs as he gazes at your overcoat, and consults with himself upon the advisability of shooting you to get possession of it, in the first mountain gorge where he may meet you alone or poorly attended.  Civilization is the natural enemy of beauty.  All its creations are ugly.  Barbarism—­or rather relative barbarism—­has found the secret of form and color.  Man living so near to Nature imitates her harmony, and finds the types of his garments and his utensils in his surroundings.  Mathematics have not yet developed their straight lines, dry angles and painful aridity.  Now-a-days, picturesque traditions are lost, the long pantaloon has invaded the universe; frightful fashion-plates circulate everywhere; now, I refuse to believe that man’s taste has become perverted to such a degree that if he were shown costumes combining elegance with richness, he would not prefer them to hideous modern rags.  Having made these judicious and profound reflections, I felt as if I had been enlightened from above, and the secret of my earthly mission revealed to me; I had come into the world to preach costume, and, as you see, I preach it by example.  Reflecting that Turkey is the country most menaced by the overcoat and stove-pipe hat, I went to Constantinople to bring about a reaction in favor of the embroidered vest and the turban.  My grave studies upon the subject, my fortune and my taste have enabled me to attain the ne plus ultra of style.

“I doubt whether a Sultan ever possessed so splendid or so characteristic a wardrobe.  I discovered among the bazaars of the cities least infected by the modern spirit, some tailors with a profound contempt for Frank fashions, who, with their tremulous hands, performed marvels of cutting and embroidery.  I will show you caftans braided in a miserable little out-of-the-way village of Asia Minor, by some poor devils whom you would not trust with your dog, which surpass, in intricacy of design, the purest arabesques of the Alhambra, and in color, the most gorgeous peacock tails of Eugene Delacroix or Narciso Ruy Diaz de la Pena, a great painter, who out of commiseration for the commonalty only makes use of a quarter of his name.