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
meningitis; 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 whiskey 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?