The late Mark Twain, in _The North American Review_, gave a
striking “Sartor Resartus” sketch of what might be the Czar’s morning
meditations, from which we quote the following paragraph:
“After the Czar’s morning bath it is his habit to meditate
an hour before dressing himself.”--London _Times_
Correspondence.
(_Viewing himself in the pier-glass._) Naked, what am I? A
lank, skinny, spiderlegged libel on the image of God! Look at
the waxwork head--the face, with the expression of a melon--the
projecting ears--the knotted elbows--the dished breast--the
knife-edged shins--and then the feet, all beads and joints and
bonesprays, an imitation X-ray photograph! There is nothing
imperial about this, nothing imposing, impressive, nothing to
invoke awe and reverence. Is it this that a hundred and forty
million Russians kiss the dust before and worship? Manifestly
not! No one could worship this spectacle, which is Me. Then who
is it, what is it, that they worship? Privately, none knows
better than I: it is my clothes. Without my clothes I should
be as destitute of authority as any other naked person. Nobody
could tell me from a parson, a barber, a dude. Then who is the
real Emperor of Russia? My clothes. There is no other. (Text.)
(113)
See DRESS AFFECTING MOODS.