dropped in to pay us a visit.
It is one of the chief charms of the summer, to my mind, the way our
little maids come out in pretty colors. I like to see the pink and
blue and white glancing between the trees, dotting the green fields,
and flashing back the
sunlight. You can see the bright colors such a
long way off. There are four white dresses climbing a hill in front
of my window now. I can see them
distinctly, though it is three miles
away. I thought at first they were mile-stones out for a lark. It's
so nice to be able to see the darlings a long way off. Especially if
they happen to be your wife and your mother-in-law.
Talking of fields and mile-stones reminds me that I want to say, in
all
seriousness, a few words about women's boots. The women of these
islands all wear boots too big for them. They can never get a boot to
fit. The bootmakers do not keep sizes small enough.
Over and over again have I known women sit down on the top rail of a
stile and declare they could not go a step further because their boots
hurt them so; and it has always been the same complaint--too big.
It is time this state of things was altered. In the name of the
husbands and fathers of England, I call upon the bootmakers to reform.
Our wives, our daughters, and our cousins are not to be lamed and
tortured with
impunity. Why cannot "narrow twos" be kept more in
stock? That is the size I find most women take.
The waist-band is another item of
feminineapparel that is always too
big. The dressmakers make these things so loose that the hooks and
eyes by which they are fastened burst off, every now and then, with a
report like thunder.
Why women suffer these wrongs--why they do not insist in having their
clothes made small enough for them I cannot
conceive. It can hardly
be that they are disinclined to trouble themselves about matters of
mere dress, for dress is the one subject that they really do think
about. It is the only topic they ever get
thoroughly interested in,
and they talk about it all day long. If you see two women together,
you may bet your bottom dollar they are discussing their own or their
friends' clothes. You notice a couple of child-like beings conversing
by a window, and you wonder what sweet, helpful words are falling from
their sainted lips. So you move nearer and then you hear one say:
"So I took in the waist-band and let out a seam, and it fits
beautifully now."
"Well," says the other, "I shall wear my plum-colored body to the
Jones', with a yellow plastron; and they've got some lovely gloves at
Puttick's, only one and eleven pence."
I went for a drive through a part of Derbyshire once with a couple of
ladies. It was a beautiful bit of country, and they enjoyed
themselves
immensely. They talked dressmaking the whole time.
"Pretty view, that," I would say, waving my
umbrella round. "Look at
those blue distant hills! That little white speck, nestling in the
woods, is Chatsworth, and over there--"
"Yes, very pretty indeed," one would reply. "Well, why not get a yard
of sarsenet?"
"What, and leave the skirt exactly as it is?"
"Certainly. What place d'ye call this?"
Then I would draw their attention to the fresh beauties that kept
sweeping into view, and they would glance round and say "charming,"
"sweetly pretty," and immediately go off into raptures over each
other's pocket-handkerchiefs, and mourn with one another over the
decadence of cambric frilling.
I believe if two women were cast together upon a desert island, they
would spend each day arguing the
respective merits of sea-shells and
birds' eggs considered as trimmings, and would have a new fashion in
fig-leaves every month.
Very young men think a good deal about clothes, but they don't talk
about them to each other. They would not find much
encouragement. A
fop is not a favorite with his own sex. Indeed, he gets a good deal
more abuse from them than is necessary. His is a
harmless failing and
it soon wears out. Besides, a man who has no foppery at twenty will
be a slatternly, dirty-
collar, unbrushed-coat man at forty. A little
foppishness in a young man is good; it is human. I like to see a
young cock
ruffle his feathers, stretch his neck, and crow as if the
whole world belonged to him. I don't like a
modest, retiring man.
Nobody does--not really, however much they may prate about
modestworth and other things they do not understand.
A meek
deportment is a great mistake in the world. Uriah Heap's
father was a very poor judge of human nature, or he would not have