One of the great female writers on dress reform, in trying to illustrate
how terrible the female dress is, says:
“Take a man and pin three or four table-cloths about him, fastened back
with elastic and looped up with ribbons, draw all his hair to the middle
of his head and tie it tight, and hairpin on five pounds of other hair
and a big bow of ribbon. Keep the front locks on pins all night, and let
them tickle his eyes all day, pinch his waist into a corset, and give
him gloves a size too small and shoes the same, and a hat that will not
stay on without torturing elastic, and a little lace veil to blind his
eyes whenever he goes out to walk, and he will know what a woman's dress
is.”
Now you think you have done it, don't you, sis? Why, bless you, that
toggery would be heaven compared to what a man has to contend with. Take
a woman and put a pair of men's four-shilling drawers on her that are so
tight that when they get damp, from perspiration, sis; they stick so you
can't cross your legs without an abrasion of the skin, the buckle in
the back turning a somersault and sticking its points into your spinal
menengitis; put on an undershirt that draws across the chest so you feel
as though you must cut a hole in it, or two, and which is so short that
it works up under your arms, and allows the starched upper shirt to sand
paper around and file off the skin until you wish it was night, the tail
of which will not stay tucked more than half a block, though you tuck,
and tuck, and tuck; and then fasten a collar made of sheet zinc, two
sizes too small for you, around your neck; put on vest and coat, and
liver pad and lung pad and stomach pad, and a porous plaster, and a
chemise shirt between the two others, and rub on some liniment, and put
a bunch of keys and a jack-knife and a button-hook and a pocket-book and
a pistol and a plug of tobacco in your pockets, so they will chafe your
person, and then go and drink a few whisky cocktails, and walk around
in the sun with tight boots on, sis, and then you will know what a man's
dress is.
Come to figure it up, it is about an even thing, sis,--isn't it?