ON DRESS.
I do not know who was the originator of the remark, but it has often
been said, and is generally admitted, that women do not dress to
please the men, but to outdo one another.
I think just the same might be said of men in their turn. It is after
all this spirit of competition which helps to make the world go round.
It is innate in man, and woman too, to always try to outrun each
other.
With clothes it is undoubtedly the case. The ancient Briton must have
vied with his neighbor in different designs with the woad plant. An
unusual curve, an uncommon pattern, caused, I daresay, as much
excitement then as the fashions of our own day.
I often wonder how they will manage some points in the histories for
the coming generation. In most of these books you see illustrations
and descriptions of the dress of the period, the costume of the reign.
How, oh historians! can you show forth those of Victorian times? Fifty
years have passed already! There were four seasons in each of those
fifty years! Two hundred illustrations must be shown in order to give
a correct idea of the dress of the time! Perhaps it might be more
satisfactory to devote a volume exclusively to the subject.
If only we did not run on so quickly! We seem to get faster every
year. In a very little time, what we wear one day will be quite out of
date the next! When we arrive at this climax, there will be a sudden
convulsion of nature, I should think, and we shall return once more to
the more simple garb of the aborigines. What an amount of trouble it
would save us! No worrying because the dressmaker has not sent our
gowns home in time! No sending them back to be altered! No
dressmaker's or tailor's bills; or at the least, very small ones; for
"woad" could not ruin us _very_ much.
So on the whole it would be well perhaps if this revolution did occur.
Some such convulsion as geologists declare has already frequently
befallen our earth; and, as they prophesy, is shortly coming again.
I do not like talking to these scientific men. They make you feel so
infinitesimally small. They go back such a long, long way. They make
out that from the Creation (which by the way they do not admit, only
considering it another great change in the world springing from
natural causes), from the Creation until now, is the space of a moment
on the great clock of time, is a mere "parenthesis in eternity."
It is not nice to feel such a nonentity. What are our lives, our
little lives in comparison? We, who each consider ourselves the one
person upon the earth, the hero or heroine in the great drama: all the
rest mere by-characters. We do not care to be considered of such
little consequence; only puppets appearing on the stage for one moment
and taken off the next. We are like the clergyman in the small island
off the North of Scotland, who prayed for the inhabitants "of Great
Cumbray and Little Cumbray and the neighboring islands of Great
Britain and Ireland!" On our small piece of land, we yet consider
ourselves the centre of the universe.
It is to be hoped if this revolution occurs, after all, that the
climate will change likewise. We should require something more besides
blue paint in most of our English winters!
Perhaps we take too much thought for what we shall put on. They say
that nothing but the prevailing and forthcoming fashions fill the
feminine mind. It is true sometimes, I daresay, and yet I always agree
with our immortal bard in thinking that "Self-love is not so vile a
thing as self-neglect."
It is decidedly better to think too much than too little. It is a duty
to your country and your nation to look your best, no matter who is
likely to see you.
Of course it can be overdone, _e.g._, the lady who insisted on her
bonnet being trimmed on the right because that was the side presented
to the congregation! And she, I am afraid, is only a type of many.
There is no reason why this should be the rule; yet nearly everyone
seems to bring out their new clothes on Sunday, and exhibit them in
Church. I suppose it is because they meet so many friends there, and
with laudable unselfishness wish them all equally to enjoy the sight.
"What's the good of your going to church?" a man said to me once; "you
only go to show off your gown and look about to see who has a new
bonnet and who has not! Now, when _I_ go," he went on in a superior
way, "I don't notice a single thing anyone has on!"
"No," I answered quietly, "but you could tell me exactly how many
pretty girls were amongst the congregation, and describe their
features accurately!" And he not only forbore to deny the accusation,
but admitted it with pride! No girl, he assured me, with any pretence
to good looks, ever escaped _his_ notice.
Which was the worse, I wonder; he or I? At least I did not glory in my
misdeeds.
"_Il faut souffrir pour être belle_;" and I _have_ suffered sometimes.
How often I used to burn myself when I first began to curl my hair!
This is such an arduous task, too, with me, for my hair is, as my old
nurse used to call it, "like a yard o' pumpwater" (I never went to her
when I wanted a compliment). It certainly is straight, and I find it a
matter of great difficulty to give it the appearance of natural
curls. But "practice makes perfect," they say, so I still persevere,
hoping that it may come right some day. I have to be so careful in
damp and rainy weather. It is such a shock to look at yourself after a
day's outing, to find your "fringe" hanging in straight lines all down
your forehead, an arrangement that is so particularly unbecoming. You
begin to wonder at what time during the day it commenced to unbend,
and if you have had that melancholy, damp appearance many hours.
Perhaps it is as well that you did not know before, for it could not
have been rectified; you cannot bring a pair of tongs and a
spirit-lamp out of your pocket and begin operations in public! Still
it is exceedingly aggravating if you think you have been making an
impression, and you return home to confront such a dejected-looking
spectacle as you find in your mirror.
I am wandering again. Let me get back to my subject--Dress. To insure
a good fit you must have your gown so tight that it is impossible to
raise your arms. You are obliged to walk about stiffly, with all the
appearance of a trussed fowl. If you wish to put on your hat you must
first unbutton your bodice! It is particularly awkward, too, in
Church: you scarcely have the power to hold your book at seeing
distance. But what do such trifles matter? You look as if you had been
melted and poured into your gown. What are a few discomforts, more or
less, when you have procured an effect such as that?
I always like to look as tall as possible. Five feet four is not a
very great height; so, to give the appearance of another inch I have
my skirts made as long as possible; that is to say, they just don't
sweep the pavement, and that is all. But, oh! the trouble of that
extra inch! Unfortunately I have no carriage, my present pecuniary
condition does not permit me the luxury of hansoms, and I always avoid
an omnibus, where you have fat old men sitting nearly on the top of
you, wet umbrellas streaming on to your boots, squalling babies, and
disputes with the conductor continuing most of the way--not to speak
of the time you have to wait while so many roll by "full inside!" So
on muddy days, when I take my walks, the amount of distress I have to
undergo on account of the length of my gown is inconceivable. I grow
weary with holding it up, and have to stop in the middle of the street
to change hands, and when you have an umbrella as well, and sometimes
a small parcel besides, this performance is anything but a momentary
matter. You drop your gown, the umbrella changes hands, and the parcel
generally falls in the mud! While picking it up, four impatient, wet,
mackintoshed pedestrians knock against you, and go off uttering
imprecations on your head. And when you are once again comfortably
settled, your satisfaction does not last long. Your left hand tires as
soon as your right, and the scene has all to be acted over again.
There is a great deal of "_savoir faire_" in holding up. Your gown
must be high enough to quite clear the ground, but then comes the
danger of holding it too high. There has been no license yet granted
for the exhibition of ankles in the great metropolis either by Mrs.
Grundy or the County Councils; therefore "holding up" becomes a very
delicate performance.
Though we do not dress only to please the men, I always prefer their
criticisms on a costume to those of my own sex. You can never tell if
the latter speak the truth. They may be jealous, and run it down from
spite; they may want to gain something from you, and so call yours "a
perfection of a gown, and suits you admirably, my dear!" disliking it
exceedingly in their inmost hearts.
But a man never gives his approbation unless he really means what he
says, and he is not difficult to please as a rule. So long as the
costume is neat and well-fitting, he does not care about anything
else. It is the _tout ensemble_ he thinks of, not the thousand and one
details that go to make up the whole.
I wonder why so many men dislike large hats! It is a pity, for they
are so very becoming to some faces, and give a picturesque effect
altogether. Perhaps this last is a reason for their disapproval. They
never like their womankind to attract attention.
The most unpardonable sin one woman can commit against another, is to
copy her clothes and bring the style out as her own idea. It is
intensely irritating! If she admits she has copied or asks your leave
beforehand, it is a different matter. You are even gratified then,
for "imitation is the sincerest flattery." But to have your ideas
stolen and brought out in such a way as to convey the impression that
you are the imitator, to say the least, arouses murderous intentions
in your heart!
There are times, too, when you receive a shock to your vanity; times
when you are quite satisfied with your appearance, and find to your
dismay that everyone is not of the same opinion.
I remember once when I was dining out and feeling very pleased with my
_tout ensemble_, I was disillusioned in a way that not only upset my
self-confidence, but my gravity at the same time. To heighten the
general effect, I had stuck a patch near my mouth. (Oh, the minds of
the last century! From whose fertile brain did it emanate, I wonder,
the fact that a piece of black plaster on the face, should be so
eminently becoming!) Imagine my horror when the maid, an old servant I
knew very well, took me aside and whispered confidentially, "Oh, Miss!
you've got _such_ a big smut on your chin!"
Clothes are altogether a great nuisance, I think. How tired you get of
the regular routine of the morning toilet; always the same, never any
variety. Why are we not born, like dogs, with nice cosy rugs all over
us, so that we should just have to get out of bed in the morning,
shake ourselves, and be ready at once to go down to breakfast and do
the business of the day?
"Ah well! God knows what's best for us all," as an old charwoman said
to me, years ago, when she was remarking on how I had grown. I never
saw the application of the remark, and do not think I ever shall.
Whether my growth was a subject to deplore, and she tried to comfort
me, or not, I cannot say; but she was evidently proud of the remark,
for she repeated it three times!