Chapter VII: Act III (2)

The full dress of Queen Anne’s time was perhaps never seen to more advantage than at the grand _soirées_ which the obese lady gave in that conservatory at Kensington which, as Defoe says, she was afterwards pleased to turn into a summer supper-room. The well-known old building was indeed divided into three rooms,—a ball-room, with a drawing and music-room on either side. The Corinthian pillars, the elegant friezes, and the niches for statues bearing girandoles, are yet to be seen. The Queen came to the parties given in this modest Trianon in a chair, by the gate on the north-west of the palace. Concerts, balls, and illuminated galas _al fresco_, were the usual entertainments; and to witness them the wealthy public were admitted, on condition of their appearing in full dress;—the ladies patched, feathered, sacked, or hooped; the gentlemen in three-cornered hats, velvet coats with stupendous skirts, powder on the head, a bodkin across the loins, and two inches of heel to give increase of dignity. Where the Broad Walk now exists there was then a railing; and through this the mobility,—worse dressed, but probably not less washed, than their betters,—looked on at the genteel people who glided about the gardens in brocaded robes, hoops, fly-caps, and fans.

Indifferent as Anne’s clothing was, there were terrible squabbles, touching the cast-off garments, between the Duchess of Marlborough, who was Mistress of the Robes, and the bed-chamber women and dressers. These complained that they only received _very_ old mantuas, and sacks, and gowns, petticoats, commodes, head-clothes, and _mantes_, from the Duchess, who kept all the best of the old clothes, they said, for her own wear. Her Grace, in return, rated them as hussies; told them that she had a right to _all_, and that they could claim none, although she gave, out of her liberality, more than they deserved. Nay, she so well distributed the cast-off garments among the subaltern ladies, that of petticoats and other habits left, she had, as she protested, “only two or three for my own service.” Such was the delicacy of a ducal Mistress of the Robes in the palmy days of Queen Anne.

“Mistress” indeed she was, and what a virago to boot! Witness the incident when Anne was entering St. Paul’s, the Duchess at her side, to render thanks for the great victory achieved at Oudenarde. The Duchess of Marlborough had had the royal jewels newly set for that especial day; and sublime was her horror, as the royal carriage ascended Ludgate-hill, at observing that the Queen had no jewels at all about her. The vicinity to Billingsgate lent power to the vituperative eloquence of the offended wife of the General whose valour had won the victory. The Queen, for once, was not an iota less vituperatively eloquent than her Mistress of the Robes. As they mounted the steps, and entered the cathedral, they flew at one another with winged words, that fly swiftly, and wound where’er they fall. Anne’s voice was by far the louder; and for every thrust of the Duchess’s tongue, she fired a volley of asseverations that made the lieges long to tear the “Mistress’s” robes from her own back. That lady saw as much herself, and became alarmed; but, like a skilful general, she had the last shot, and fairly battered the Queen into silence, as she attempted to renew the contest in the royal pew, by the imperative order to “hold your tongue!”—“don’t answer me!”—and poor Anne obeyed.

But if Anne claimed the privilege of dressing as she pleased, she was angry if the necessary etiquette was disregarded by others. When Eugene of Savoy came over here in 1712, to uphold, as well as he could with his one hand, the war-faction against the Queen, he marvellously offended her by appearing in her august presence in a tie-wig. Mr. Secretary St. John, who presented him, wore a periwig so huge that he perfectly extinguished therewith the illustrious stranger whom he held by the hand. Eugene had been forewarned that the Queen could not bear to look upon a man unless he were covered with a full-bottomed periwig. Eugene carelessly, and not truthfully, answered, as he stood in the royal antechamber, “I don’t know what to do; I never had a long periwig in my life; and I have sent to all my valets and footmen to know if any of them have one, that I might borrow it; but no one has such a thing.” And so the Prince was conducted to the Queen, who thought more of the tie-wig on his head than she did of the gallant heart that beat within his “plaguy yellow and literally ugly” person.

Queen Anne, on the death of Prince George of Denmark, wore black and white, with a mixture of purple in some part of her dress. The precedent was taken from that worn by Mary Queen of Scots for the Earl of Darnley. Mourning, with such variety in it, was, after all, better than _none_. The Pope’s nieces, for instance, never wear mourning, not even for their nearest relatives. The Romans account it so great a happiness for a family to have a Pope in it, that they think no calamity whatever ought to be permitted to afflict his Holiness’s kindred! On the other hand, the dowager Empresses of Germany were accustomed never to leave off their mourning, and even their apartments were hung with black till their death. I will just add, that the French Queens, previous to the era of Charles VIII., wore white upon the decease of the King. They were thence called “Reines blanches.” In later days, the state mourning of the French court was purple. Consequently, when Anne wore white, black, and purple, in mourning for her departed lord, she put on the suits of woe sanctioned by the practice of three different courts.

Sophia Dorothea, the wife of George I., was the second of the royal consorts of England who never visited our shores. For allowing Count Königsmark to kiss her hand, her jealous husband murdered the Count, and shut the lady up in prison for more than thirty years. In her youth she was a charming person, charmingly dressed. The most touching circumstance of her long captivity was her weekly appearance, all clad in white, at the communion-table of the chapel of her prison-house, the Castle of Alden, where she partook of the sacrament, made solemn asseveration of her innocence, and forgave her enemies.

The process of dressing Marie Antoinette, it will be seen in another page, was at times a splendid misery. That of Queen Caroline, the wife of George II., was a splendid mockery. Horace Walpole describes a scene as having taken place in Queen Anne’s tiring-room, which really occurred in that of the sovereign lady of the second George. This exemplary Queen dressed and transacted her early worship at one and the same moment. She and her nymphs were in one room, the chaplain _solus_ in another. Occasionally these nymphs, in their discretion, closed the door. Whenever this occurred, the chaplain, liberal Whiston, ceased to pray, and meditated on the mysteries proceeding within. This observance nettled the Queen, and did not please her ladies. One of the latter, on re-opening the door one morning, and finding the chaplain had not progressed in his duties while he had been shut out, angrily inquired, “Why did you stop?” “I stopped,” said Whiston, “because I do not choose to whistle the word of God through the key-hole.”

It is not to be wondered at, since queens afforded such examples of laxity, that fine ladies followed with alacrity the unseemly fashion. Miss Strickland notices the fact, that great ladies had, in the days upon which we are treating, a bad custom of proceeding with the affairs of the toilet during prayers; which was severely satirized, says the fair historian, in one of the old plays of that era, “where the fashionable belle is described preparing for her morning toilet, by saying her prayers in bed to save time, while one maid put on her stockings, and the other read aloud the play-bill.”

The consort of George III., the “good” Queen Charlotte, lived in a transition time, and wore the costumes of two separate centuries. The little lady lacked taste; and though she set the fashion to loyal maids and matrons, seldom became the robes she wore. But at the worst of these periods she displayed more taste, and, what is better than taste, more personal cleanliness, than her daughter-in-law, the coarse wife of the heartless George IV. Queen Adelaide was simply a lady. Expensive dresses were her abhorrence; and she never put on a robe of state without a sigh at the cost. In any sphere of life she would have been a thoroughly tidy, honest, careful housewife.

Except for a few days, Queen Victoria has not resided at Anne’s favourite Kensington since her accession. In her early days, the then little princess,—clad so simply that it is wonderful the middle classes did not avail themselves of the example, and dress their darlings less tawdrily,—might be seen of a bright morning in the enclosure in front of the palace, her mother at her side. On one of these occasions I remember seeing a footman, after due instruction given, bringing out to the lively daughter of the Duke of Kent a doll most splendidly attired,—sufficiently so to pass for the εἴδωλον of an heiress, and captivate whole legions of male _poupées_, all gold without, and sawdust within. The brilliant effigy, however, had no other effect upon the little princess but to put her in a passion. She stamped her little foot and shook her lustrous curls, and evidently the liveried Mercury had unwittingly disobeyed her bidding. He disappeared for a minute or two, but returned, bearing with him a very _torso_ of a doll. A marine-store dealer would not have hung up such an image, even to denote that he dealt in stolen goods, and “no questions asked.” But the unhappily deformed image was the loadstone of the youthful affections of the princess. She seized it with frantic delight, skipped with it over the grass, gambolled with it, laughed over it, and finally, in the very exuberance of joy, thrust it so suddenly up to the face of a short old lady, who was contemplating the scene from the low iron fence, that the stranger started back and knew not well what to make of it; thereupon the maternal Mentor advanced, and something like an apology appeared to be offered, but this was done with such a shower of saucy “curtsies,”—so droll, so rapid, so “audacious,” and so full of hearty, innocent, uncontrollable fun,—that duchess, princess, old lady, and the few spectators of the scene, broke into as much laughter as _bienséance_ would permit; and some of them, no doubt, “exclaimed _mentally_,” as well-bred people do in novels, that there was a royal English girl, who had most unquestionably a heart and a will of her own,—and may God bless both!

I have noticed above how queens of foreign birth introduced to our ancestresses fashions of which their young imaginations had never dreamed. The origin of all fashion then, as now, was in France; and thitherward we now will take our way.

“LA MODE” IN HER BIRTH-PLACE.

Chacun à sa mode, et les ânes à l’ancienne.—MODISH PROVERB.

The Honourable James Howard, in the year 1764, wrote a sprightly comedy, entitled ‘The English Monsieur.’ The hero is an individual who sees nothing English that is not execrable. An English meal is poison, and an English coat degradation. He once challenged a tasteless individual who had praised an English dinner; and, says the _English Monsieur_, “I ran him through his mistaken palate, which made me think the hand of justice guided my sword.” He can tell whether English or French ladies have passed along the moist road before him, by the impressions that they leave.

“I have often,” he remarks, “in France, observed in gardens, when the company used to walk after a small shower of rain, the impression of the French ladies’ feet. I have seen such _bonne mine_ in their footsteps, that the King of France’s _maître de danse_ could not have found fault with any one tread amongst them all. In this walk,” he adds, “I find the toes of English ladies ready to tread upon one another.”

Subsequently our “English Monsieur” quarrels with a friend, because he had found fault with “a pair of French tops” worn by the Philogallist, and which were so noisy when the wearer moved in them, that the other’s mistress could not hear a word of the love made to her. The wearer justifies the noise as a fashionable French noise; “for look you, Sir, a French noise is agreeable to the air, and therefore not unagreeable, and therefore not prejudicial to the hearing; that is to say, to a person who has seen the world.” The slave of Gallomania even finds comfort, when his own mistress rejects him, in the thought that “’twas a denial with a French tone of voice, so that ’twas agreeable!” and when she bids him a final adieu, he remarks to a friend, “Do you see, Sir, how she leaves us? she walks away with a French step.”

Such was the early allegiance rendered even in this country to the authority of France in the matters of “Mode,” of that ever-variable queen, of whom a French writer himself has despairingly said, that she is the despot of ladies and fops; “La mode est le tyran des femmes et des fats.”

But Paris is the focus of insurrection, and Fashion itself has had to endure many a rebellious assault. Never was rebellion more determined than that carried on against towering plumes.

In Paris, feathers and head-dress extended so outrageously, both in a vertical and a horizontal direction, that a row of ladies in the pit stalls, or in the front row of the boxes, effectually barred the “spectacle” from an entire audience in the rear. The fashion was suppressed by a Swiss, who was as well known in the Paris theatres as the celebrated critical trunk-maker once was in our own galleries. The Swiss used to attend, armed with a pair of scissors; and when he found his view obstructed by the head-dresses in front, he made a demonstration of cutting away all the superfluous portions of the head-dresses which interfered with his enjoyment. At first, the result was that the ladies made way for him, and he obtained a front place; but overcome by his obstinate warfare they at length hauled down their top-knots, and by yielding defeated the Swiss,—for he never got a front place afterwards.

I will take the liberty of adding here, that the fans used by Queen Elizabeth were usually made of feathers, and were as large as a modern hand fire-screen, with all sorts of devices thereon, such as would have singularly delighted an astronomical Chinese philosopher. Sir Francis Drake gave her one of this description, and she used to leave fans of a similar description at country houses as memorials of her visits; as, for instance, when she left Hawsted Hall, she dropped her silver-handled fan into the moat. Happy of course was the lucky man who got it thence. But to get back to France.

Carlin, the famous French harlequin, once excited universal laughter by appearing on the stage, not with the usual rabbit’s tail in his harlequin’s cap, but with a peacock’s feather, and _that_ of such length, that the stage was hardly high enough for him. If the laughter however was universal, there was not wanting something of indignation, for lofty feathers formed a fashion in which Marie Antoinette very much rejoiced, and old royalists thought that Carlin ought to be sent to prison for his impertinence; but Carlin had not ventured on the caricature but by superior order, and the King would not consent to his being molested.

The fashion deserved to be caricatured, for feathers and head-dresses had raised themselves to such an outrageous elevation, when Mdlle. Bertin, the milliner, and Marie Antoinette set a fashion between them which ruined many a family, that they who followed the mode to the extreme were compelled, as they rode in carriages, either to hang their heads out at the door, or to set on the floor of the vehicle.

When Hardicanute lived at the house of Osgod Clappa, the Clapham district, which took its name from the chief, was not half so obsequious in copying the costume and carriage of the royal dandy, as all France was in transforming themselves into multiplied copies of the consort of Louis XVI.

And what a cruel ceremony was the dressing of that same Queen! When Marie Antoinette, in the days of her cumbersome greatness, stood of a morning in the centre of her bed-chamber, awaiting, after her bath, her first article of dress, it was presented to her, or rather it was passed over her royal shoulders by the “dames d’honneur.” Perhaps, at the very moment, a princess of the blood entered the room (for French Queens both dressed and dined in public), the right of putting on the primal garment of her Majesty immediately devolved upon _her_, but it could not be yielded to her by the “dame d’honneur;” the latter, arresting the _chemise de la Reine_ as it was passing down the royal back, adroitly whipped it off, and, presenting it to the “première dame,” that noble lady transferred it to the princess of the blood. Madame Campan had once to give it up to the Duchess of Orléans, who, solemnly taking the same, was on the point of throwing it over the Queen’s head, when a scratching (it was contrary to etiquette to knock) was heard at the door of the room. Thereupon entered the Countess de Provence, and she being nearer to the throne than the lady of Orléans, the latter made over her office to the new-comer. In the meantime, the Queen stood like Venus as to covering, but shaking with cold, for it was mid-winter, and muttering “what an odious nuisance!” The Countess de Provence entered on the mission which had fallen to her; and this she did so awkwardly, that she entirely demolished a head-dress which had taken three hours to build. The Queen beheld the devastation, and got warm by laughing outright.

As England had its “macaronies,” its “bloods,” its “bucks,” its “dandies,” and its “exquisites,” so France had its “hommes à bonnes fortunes,” its “petits-maîtres,” its “importuns,” its “élégans,” and last of all, its “lions.” With us, variety of names scarcely indicated variety of species; the “macaroni” and the “exquisite” were simply the fast and fashionable men of their respective times; their titles were conferred by the people, not arrogated by themselves.

It was otherwise with our neighbours. The “hommes à bonnes fortunes” assumed the appellation, and therewith became the terror of fathers and husbands. His glory was to create a “scandal”—to be ever mixed up with the coteries of the women, and to be for ever fighting the men. Compared with him, the “importuns,” who took the Duc de Beaufort for their Magnus Apollo, and the “petits-maîtres,” who swore by their great master, the Prince de Condé, were simply harmless fops.

The “elegant” was the first of the butterfly race who exhibited a calmness of bearing. He smiled rather than answered, when spoken to; never gazed at his reflection in a glass, but concentrated his looks upon his own proper person. He was in a continual calm ecstasy at the sight of so charming a doll, so admirably dressed.

“The ‘elegant,’” says Mercier, “pays visits of not more than a quarter of an hour’s duration. He no longer proclaims himself the ‘friend of the duke,’ the ‘lover of the duchess,’ or the ‘indispensable man at little suppers.’ He speaks of the retirement in which he lives, of the chemistry which he studies, of his distaste for the great world. He lets others speak; and while they speak, an almost imperceptible smile of derision flutters on his lips. He is dreaming while he listens to you. He does not noisily leave a room, but glides out of it; and a quarter of an hour after he has quitted you, he writes you a note, as if he had not seen you for months, just to show you that he is an absent man.”

The “elegant” was not without his uses. He brought down superlativeism. Exaggeration of speech and of dress went out as he came in. This change extended to female as well as male society. He rendered social intercourse however a difficulty for intellectual men. The latter had indeed no difficulty in talking of science with the wise, of knowledge with the learned, of war with the soldier, and of dogs and horses with the nobles; but he did find a difficulty in talking about nothing with those fashionable women who cared only for the subject most patronized by the “elegant.”

What dreadful guys were the French children of the middle of the last century! Their monkeys, who danced upon cords, for the edification of the _grande nation_, were not more ridiculous. Fancy a boy seven years old: his head was powdered profusely, and between his little shoulders hung the wide tie or bag of his hair. Therewith he wore a full-sleeved and broad-skirted coat, immense ruffles, a cocked hat, not on his head,—it was not big enough for that,—but beneath his arm; and upon his tobacco-pipe of a thigh there hung a needle of a sword! And this young old man could hold himself erect, could bow like a judge, and was kept lean by late hours. He had, in the common acceptation of the words, neither wrists, arms, nor legs of his own. He seemed jointless, but he had been taught how to sit down, and how to walk a minuet.

Mercier groans over the contrast between French and English boys of this period. Take, he says, a little Gallic monseigneur to London, and introduce him to the son of a lord, a boy of his own age. What does he see? Clean, fair, and long flowing hair; the skin pure and healthy; the head unmolested by a peruke; the body supple and robust. The little Frenchman might be sulky thereat, but he found consolation in his gold-laced embroidery. He thinks to make an impression on the other boy by his profound bows, at which the English lad laughs; and when, according to the French custom, the little monseigneur advances to embrace the youthful Briton, the latter skips off, with the exclamation, that they wanted to take him in by pretending to introduce him to a playfellow, which proved to be only a monkey.

The extravagances of fashion were carried to the utmost in France when it was the custom for ladies not only to keep the head powdered and uncleaned, but to wear over it a napkin less clean still. The authors of the period are murderously satirical against a mode which especially prescribes that the napkin should not only seem dirty, but be so. Lady Mary Wortley Montague however thought the idea admirable, and she adopted it with a nasty alacrity.

The fashion nevertheless could not long “obtain,” and soon we find _la Mode_ raised from an art to a science, and women devoting themselves to the study thereof with an intensity worthy of a better cause.

A pretty woman, says Mercier, meaning thereby a pretty Frenchwoman, daily goes twice through the ceremony of the toilet. The first was a mystery, from which lovers were as rigorously banished as the profane from solemn rites in the temples of old. A lover, says Mercier, dare not enter his lady’s tiring-bower but at an appointed hour. You may deceive a woman, but you must never come upon her by surprise: that is the rule; the most favoured and the most liberal of lovers never dares to infringe thereon.

Mercier however seems to have had free admission to the performance of the early ceremony; for he says that thereat mysterious use was made of all the cosmetics whose application beautifies the skin. He only alludes to “other preparations which, among women, form a science apart,—ah! I might say, a whole encyclopædia.”

The second toilet he describes as a game invented by coquetry. If faces be thus made before a glass, it was, he says, with a studied grace. It was not contemplation, but admiration. If the finger was run through the long curls, it was only for effect, for they had already been duly arranged and perfumed. It was at this second toilet that the world was present. The lovers fluttered round the half-dressed object of what they called their love,—and that object was only a quarter dressed, and looking not unlike Anadyomene herself as to form and feature and position, but with a glance in her eyes and a significance in her bearing that bespoke much more the Venus Pandemia than the Venus Ourania. And there too were the abbés, who were permanent lovers wheresoever they were to be found; they were of all sizes and conditions of health, but they were all, without exception, gay, gallant, witty, impudent, and blasphemous beyond all belief, and happily beyond all conception. Reputations were made and unmade at these morning toilets; and as for the detail of the dressing, while the _coquet_ and _causerie_ were going on, it was very like that which Pope has so brilliantly described in the Rape of the Lock, and in which a reputation died at every word.

In modern days France has become more than ever the locality where the Popess Fashion is enthroned, and whose slipper is reverently kissed by a devoted world. Parenthetically may I say that the custom of kissing the Pontiff’s slipper arose from the time when one of the Leos, having been offended by an act of one of his fingers, cut it off, and in his strange humility would no longer permit his hand to be saluted by the faithful. That was a queer cause for a strange fashion; but it rests only on legendary authority. In France causes as strange, sometimes more and sometimes less pleasant, have fixed the fashion of the hour. Last century,—that is to say, during something more than the traditionary “nine days” of that century,—the rage in Paris was for pantaloons made, from aloes, the colour of a lady’s finger-nails, between rosy tint and delicate blue.

France not only gave the fashion for fine dresses, but also prescribed how people should visit in them. It was in Paris, about the year 1770, that was introduced the custom of visiting _en blanc_, as it was called; that is by leaving a card. The old ladies and gentlemen who loved to show their costume, called this fashion fantastic; but it has its advantages, and, though sometimes anti-social, is perhaps generally less so than it at first sight appears. Society would often gain nothing by the closer contact of individuals.

There was wit however in many of the modish inventions of the Parisians. Here is an instance. La Harpe was the vainest of men, and the most unfortunate of authors. His pieces were invariably failures; but he used to speak of their success with as little regard to truth as the Czar Nicholas and his Muscovite “gentlemen” show, when, being thoroughly well beaten, they go and outrage Heaven with thanks for a victory. La Harpe’s tragedy of “Les Barmécides” was hissed off the stage; but he complacently pottered about its merits. He was one day riding in the Bois de Boulogne with the Duchess de Grammont and another lady, when a man was heard calling for sale “Cannes à la Barmécide.” La Harpe rapturously summoned him to the carriage-door, at the request of the Duchess, who wished to make him a present of a walking-stick _à la Barmécide_, in celebration of the success achieved by his tragedy. “But why do you call your canes _à la Barmécide_?” said La Harpe. “I will show you,” said the man; and taking off the ivory head, he pointed to a whistle within, warranted to be shrill of note, and which the vendor pronounced to be very useful to owners of good dogs and hissers of bad tragedies. La Harpe could have shed “tears of bile,” says Beaumarchais; and, what is worse, the story got abroad, and the tailors profited by it, and sporting vests with a little pocket to carry a whistle, were immediately named “vestes à la Barmécide.”

What the Bourse and Royal Exchange are to the magnates of the commercial world, the Temple in Paris is (and Rag Fair and Houndsditch in London are or have been) to the dealers in the cast-off skins, if we may so speak, of glittering metropolitan and other snakes. It is especially at Paris that the commerce of renovated ancient garments (_dix-huits_, as they are sometimes called, because _deux fois neuf_) is carried on with eagerness.

The locality of the Temple, where knights displayed a sovereign splendour and the _roués_ of Paris laughed at the philosophers’ splendid wit,—where kings put their plate in pawn, and where the people made prisoners of kings,—was turned to something like base uses when, upon its sacred or classic soil,—soil, at all events, on which flourished a giant crop of varied memories,—was erected the arcaded and pilastered rotunda, beneath which dealers drove bargains in dilapidated habits. The Paris class of such dealers is a class apart, who barter, sell, and re-sell; and through whose hands pass the rejected garments of court and city. There, in old chests, may still be found tarnished lace coats, which once shone brilliantly at the court of Louis XV.; and embroidered robes, whose original wearers sat at the suppers of the Regent, and laughed at Heaven. By the side of the republican _carmagnole_ hangs the red robe of the parliamentary magistrates, or judges rather, with something of the senator annexed,—a little of the legislative with a trifle of the executive, and not very much of either,—and who wore those scarlet robes on days of high rejoicing, when the grand wearers of them were accustomed, as they met at the tribunal, not to bow but to curtsey to each other. The act is not incongruous to the dress; for when the Turkish Ambassador first saw our own judges in their crimson draperies, seated in the House of Lords, he innocently asked who all those old ladies were who were huddled together and looked so uncomfortable. But to return to Paris.

It is to the Temple that the correct comedian runs who would fain discover the proper type of a lost mode of the last century. And this reminds me that the law in France is exceedingly strict, even with respect to the costume of a comedian. It is not many months since that a young French actress, possessed with becoming ideas of decency, refused to put on the extremely minute portion of transparent gauze which was allotted to her as her entire costume, in a fairy piece then about to appear. She averred that to stand so attired, rather undressed than dressed, before the public, would be an insult to the audience and a degradation to herself. The manager, not more modest than those delicate creatures generally are, did not comprehend, and therefore could not respect, the sentiment which influenced the young actress; and he accordingly summoned her to the tribunal of the law. The grave magistrate heard the case, examined the bit of gauze, condemned the poor girl to wear it, and went in the evening to see how she looked. The worthy official of the very blind Astræa repaired to the lady’s “loge” when all was over, and inquired pleasantly how she had felt when greeted by the acclamations of the audience. “I felt as if I were in the pillory,” said the really _decens Nympha_, “and that every shout was a missile flung at my head.” The solemn villain smiled, tapped her on the cheek, and bade her take courage; “that foolish excess of modesty,” he said, “would soon disappear!” Thus we see that Paris has not improved in this respect since the days when people saw “the Testament turned into melodramas nightly:”—

“Here Daniel in pantomime bids bold defiance
To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff’d lions;
While pretty young Israelites dance round the prophet,
In very thin clothing, and but little of it.
Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path
As the lovely Susanna, without e’en a relic
Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath
In a manner that, Bob says, is quite _Eve-angelic_.”

Many a royal garment has been carried off from the Temple to the theatres. The former place is most crowded about eleven in the morning. All the _marchands d’habits_ in Paris assemble there at that hour, laden with the purchases which they have made during the early part of the day; and these purchases are immediately resold to the stationary dealers in the rotunda, who divide the same according to their respective merits and expected customers.

One of the best-dressed men in France under the Empire was General Dorsenne. “Look at Dorsenne,” Napoleon would say, “on the day of battle; he looks like the true type of a French general, while Murat has the air of a rider from Franconi’s.”

Dorsenne was about to set out for the campaign in Prussia. He was the possessor of a tasteful but brilliant uniform, which he was desirous of exhibiting as closely as possible to the enemy, and which he intended to wear at the balls at Berlin. It was duly packed up; and Dorsenne, who was to set out on the morrow, took it into his head to pay a visit in the evening to the Théâtre de la Gaîté, where they play such melancholy melodramas, in order to see the somewhat celebrated actor Tautain in one of his military characters. The first act passed off well enough; but in the second Tautain appeared in the full uniform of a general. Dorsenne was astonished; he put up his glass, recognized his property on Tautain’s back, and, exploding with wrath, he cried to his aide-de-camp:—

“Arrest that rascal; take him to the corps-de-garde; I will be there as soon as you; he has stolen my coat!”

The piece was interrupted: four soldiers escorted Tautain to the neighbouring “poste,” and there stood the General as scarlet as Major Bagstock.

“Where did you steal that coat, you wretched mountebank?” exclaimed Dorsenne.

“I am neither thief nor mountebank,” said Tautain, who was pale with rage and fright; “I bought it not two hours ago at the Temple.”

When the affair was examined into, Dorsenne’s valet turned out to be the thief. The latter was punished as he merited; and the General, leaving his coat, lace, and epaulettes to the comedian, went through the campaign in an old uniform and with his accustomed success.

In this quarter of the Temple takes place the last transformation of the black dress coat, the silk waistcoat, and the polished leather boots. The French _feuilletoniste_ who is known by the name of M. D’Anglemont, has devoted much of his acute observation to the manners of the Temple Exchange. It is from him we learn that when a coat has passed through all its degrees of descent,—when it has been transferred from maker to owner, from the latter to his valet, from the valet to the porter, and from that functionary to the Norman who plies in Paris the vocation which is monopolized in London by sons of ancient Israel,—it soon after arrives at the Temple, the necropolis of Parisian costumes. It is there turned, mended, and re-made; and it has yet a phase to go through before it is ultimately sold to those Paris manufacturers who make “l’engrais de laine,” guano for worn-out clothes. This last phase it owes to the ingenuity of the brothers Meurt-de-Soif.

This name, Meurt-de-Soif, as we are told by M. D’Anglemont, is not a name invented by the Paris wits. The family of Meurt-de-Soif (Die of Thirst) has its residence in the sixth arrondissement. Its especial occupation is the purchase of old garments in huge quantities, which are made temporarily to wear a new aspect, and then sold to the suburban beaux who sun themselves beyond the Barriers.

The traffic carried on by this family takes place at night, by torch-light, and by Dutch auction. There you may see put up a coat from the studio of Humann, a genuine waistcoat from the hand of Blanc, and trousers whose incomparable cut declares them to have proceeded from the genius and shears of Morbach; in a word, the costume complete of a “fashionable” of the first water,—for how much? Three francs!—just half-a-crown!—the pleasantry of the vendor included, without extra charge.

This pleasantry is something like that of our “Cheap Jacks,” whose invention is so facile, and whose power of lying exceeds that of Osten-Sacken and the Czar together.

“Look, gentlemen,” exclaims one of the illustrious house in question; “this coat originally belonged to a Russian prince, and was the means of rendering him irresistible in the eyes of a _danseuse_ of the Grande Chaumière. It subsequently became the admiration of all the inhabitants of the Closerie du Lilas, who saw its effect on the back of a celebrated corn-cutter. By means of this coat the valet of a ‘milord’ carried off a _figurante_ from the little Théâtre des Délassemens, who mistook him for his master. The coat has come to us immediately from this last possessor, the extravagance of whose Dulcinea compelled him to part from it. Well, gentlemen, notwithstanding all these glorious souvenirs, in spite of all the conquests due to it, I _give_ it to you, gentlemen, at three francs! Three francs! there is an opportunity for those accustomed to profit by it!”

The coat put up at three francs has a gradually diminishing value put upon it, until it is at last purchased at thirty sous. Morbach’s trousers go for a franc; and Blanc’s waistcoat for the small price of fifty centimes—fivepence!

The garments thus purchased are often only retained for a single Sunday, some _fête_ day, on which the poor cavalier desires to look splendid, though it be with a second-hand splendour, in the eyes of his “belle.” If the costume holds together through the severe ordeal of a night’s dancing, it is often resold to the Temple merchants, who repair the damage, and again fit it to the back of some ephemeral dandy of the suburbs who wishes but to shine for “a little day.”

“La Mère Moskow” drives her own trade by the side of the Meurt-de-Soifs. She is an ex-vivandière of the Grand Army, who lets out body-linen to poor gentlemen suffering from scarcity. A shirt may be hired of her for a week for the modest price of twopence, the wearer being required merely to leave his old one, by way of a security deposit. Nothing can be more delicate than, not the deposit, but the manner in which the request is made; and a shirt of La Mère Moskow might have been worn, without scruple, at Lord O’Grady’s by the Reverend Ozias Polyglot, or the better-endowed Reverend Obadiah Pringle.

But I shall have more to say hereafter touching Gallic influences incidentally; I will therefore turn from persons and places to things, and, hat in hand, discourse of what I hold.

HATS.

“Your bonnet to its right use.”—SHAKSPEARE.

Newton observed this Shakspearian injunction by always taking off his hat when he pronounced the name of God. This was a right use. The grandmother of Guy Faux devoted one to a strange use when she bequeathed her best velvet hat to a nephew. I have often wondered if he went to church in it! The grandees of Spain treat their sacred sovereign with less respect than Newton showed for a sacred name. It is the privilege of the grandees of Spain that they may stand with their hats on in the presence of their sovereign. There is but one noble in England so privileged,—the head, so to speak, of the De Courcys, Earls of Kinsale.

It is just six centuries and a half since Philip of France sent over a knight to summon King John to answer for the murder of Prince Arthur, or abide by trial by combat. John had no relish to do either, but he looked round for a substitute willing to meet one of the alternatives. There was a gallant soldier in prison of the name of De Courcy. He had conquered Ulster for his master, Lackland, and had been rewarded with captivity because he had not done more. His fetters were struck off, and he was asked if he were willing to be champion for John in this bloody arbitrement. “No, not for him!” cried De Courcy, “but for my country, ay!” The adversaries met, yet did not come to an encounter; for the French knight, not liking the look of his gigantic foe, declined the combat, and so lost his honour. John and Philip, who were together present, directed De Courcy to give them a taste of his quality. Whereupon the champion placed his helmet upon a post, and cleaving through the first into the second, his sword stuck so fast in the wood that none but himself could draw it out. “Never unveil thy bonnet, man, again, before king or subject,” was the cheap privilege accorded him by the economical John; “but tell us why thou lookedst so fiercely round ere thou didst deal thy dainty stroke.” “Because, had I failed, I intended to slay all who had dared to mock me.” “By the mass,” said John, “thou art a pleasant companion, and therewith Heaven keep thee in good beavers!”

It was long the custom for the De Courcys to wear their hat, but for a moment, in presence of their respective kings, just for the purpose of asserting their privilege, and then to doff it, like other men. The head of the family, at one of George the Third’s Drawing-rooms, thinking this not sufficient assertion of his right, continued wearing his court head-piece throughout the time he was in the “presence.” The good old King at length extinguished this poor bit of pride, by bluntly remarking, “The gentleman has a right to be covered before _me_; but even King John could give him no right to be covered before ladies.” The rebuke was most effectual; and De Courcy saw, to his horror, that the entire court, ladies, princesses, courtiers, and attendants, were wreathing a broad girdle of grins “all round his hat.”

It is said that when Fox the Quaker had an interview with Charles the Second, the King observing that his “friend” kept on his beaver, immediately took off his own. “Put on thy hat, friend Charles,” said the plain gentleman. “Not so, friend George,” replied the King; “it is usual for only one man to be covered here.” It was a neat retort, and may serve as a _pendant_ to the remark of the peasant boy, whom Henri IV. had taken up behind him, and who pretended that he would take the lad where he might see the monarch. “How shall I know the King when he is among so many nobles?” said the rustic, as he rode _en croupe_ behind the sovereign, of whose identity he was ignorant. “You will know him,” said Henri, “by his being the only person who will keep his hat on.” At length the two arrived where the King’s officers awaited him, and they all uncovered as he trotted up to them. “Now, good lad,” said he, “which is the King?” “Well,” exclaimed the boy, “it must be either you or I, for we have both got our hats on!”—An old-world story, I fear, but not _mal trovato_.

Hats have been of divers service in battle. The plumed hat of Henri IV. was the rallying point of his followers. In later times, the head-covering was put to good purpose by a ’cute Highlander. In the Peninsular war, one of the 93rd and a French infantry-man came upon one another in a wood. As their pieces were unloaded, they both rushed to the cover of a tree, in order to put their muskets in deadly order; but this done, neither was inclined to look out, lest the other should be beforehand with him, and let fly. At length the Highlander quietly put his feathered hat on the end of his piece, and held it a little beyond the tree, as though a head was in it, looking out. At the same moment the impatient Frenchman reconnoitered, saw his supposed advantage, and, from his rifle, sent a ball through his adversary’s bonnet; thereupon the bonny Scot calmly advanced with his loaded piece, and took his enemy prisoner without difficulty.

I do not know if it ever occurred to any one that hats had something to do with the dissolution of the Long Parliament; but such is the fact. As soon as Cromwell had declared that assembly non-existent, he flung on his hat, and paced up and down the Parliament Chamber. The members, however, were piqued by such truly cavalier swagger, and would not budge an inch. Cromwell called in Major Harrison and the guard. The Major saw how matters stood, and he felt at once that he could get the ex-deputies out much sooner by courtesy than carbines. Accordingly he approached the Speaker, and taking off his own hat with much ceremony, he bowed low, kissed the fallen official’s hand, detaining it at the same time with such gentle violence that the deposed dignitary was constrained to follow whither the very polite but unwelcome republican chose to conduct him. The Major led him out of the Hall, we are told, “as a gentleman does a lady, the whole Parliament following.” Thus a hat in hand helped to do what a hat on head failed to accomplish; and the Long Parliament resisting rudeness, yielded to gallantry, and was demolished for ever.

The close of the last national Parliament held in Scotland has something in connection with the hat. On the 22nd April, 1707, that illustrious but sometimes turbulent assembly adjourned never to meet again. There must have been some aching hearts under the old-fashioned dresses of many of the members; but there was no sorrow to be read on the brow of Seafield the Chancellor. He put on his hat as he pronounced, with brutal levity, the annihilation of the parliamentary body. Had he done it to hide confusion or to mark contempt, there might have been some excuse for him, but it was a mere formality; and he unfeelingly added thereto, words which were the cruel knell of the dying victim. “There,” said he, “there is the end of an auld sang!” It was a song that, in its day, had been sung to some tune, despite some harshness and occasional discord; but, as the Chancellor remarked when he put on his hat, there was an end of it.

When Sir Edward Coke, in 1645, was trying Mrs. Turner, the physician’s widow, as an accessory before the fact in the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury (the poor woman had a penchant for poisoning people,—but we have all our little _foibles_), he observed that she wore a hat, and he bade her take it off. “A woman,” said he, “may be covered in a church, but not when arraigned in a court of justice.” The lady tartly commented on the singularity that she might wear her hat in presence of God, and not in that of man. “For the reason,” said the judge, “that man with weak intellects cannot discover the secrets which are known to God; and therefore, in investigating truth, where human life is in peril, and one is charged with taking life from another, the court should see all obstacles removed. Besides,” he added, “the countenance is often an index to the mind, and accordingly it is fitting that the hat be removed, and therewith the shadow which it casts upon your face.” The hat was taken off; but the lady, although a murderess, was modest, and she covered her hair with a kerchief.

Had good Mrs. Turner been like the ladies and gentlemen of Natal, she might have puzzled the chief justice. The Natal “fashionables” wear hats of from half a foot to a foot in height, made of the fat of oxen. They first gradually anoint the head with a purer grease; and this, mixing with the hair, fastens these _bonnets_ on during the lives of the wearers! Or the fashion of the Myantses would have done. These people carry on their heads a slight board, a foot long, and half of that broad; with this they cover their hair, and seal it with wax. They cannot lie down or lean without keeping the neck straight; and the country being very woody, it is not uncommon to find them with their head-dress entangled in the trees. Whenever they require to comb their hair, once or twice a year, they have to pass a preliminary hour in melting the wax, before they can get their hats off.

Better keep them on than take them off to such poor purpose, as was once observed in the case of one of the celebrities of the Place Royale, Beautru, whose name was a mine of tinsel to the little punsters of Paris, in the reign of Louis XIII. Beautru was bold, haughty, and an inveterate gambler. He was a libertine both as to morals and religion, and the slanderer _par excellence_ of his age. Richelieu had a strong liking for him,—proof enough that he was not worth the affection of an honest man. His repartees were more spiced with wickedness than wit. One day, on passing in front of a crucifix in the public streets, he, with an air of humble reverence, raised his hat. “Ah!” exclaimed one who saw the unwonted action, “that is what I call setting a good example.” “Very good!” cried the scoffer, pushing his hat firm upon his brows, “but you will be pleased to observe that though we bow, we are not on speaking terms.”

The Place Royale was in the olden times the _sanctum sanctorum_ both of fashion and wit; and never had either a more celebrated high-priest than Voiture. This famous Euphuist was only the son of the keeper of a wine-shop, but he used to say that he had been born again in the society of Madame and Mademoiselle de Rambouillet. He was a renowned humourist, was given to love-making and to card-playing, but rather to the latter than the former. He was remarkable for the fashion of his hats, which he wore in the very extreme of the mode, like Don Basilio in the ‘Barber of Seville;’ and he never uncovered even to the greatest noble, until the latter had first lowered his bonnet to _him_ in testimony of salute to the wit of the son of the wine-dealer. He once brought two bears from the street into the boudoir of Mademoiselle Rambouillet; and the lords and ladies both laughed and screamed at seeing Voiture cover their heads with the hats of two of the company, and give the animals fine Greek names, as was the custom of the Euphuists of the day. It was he who uttered the neat expression applied to Bossuet, when the latter, at the premature age of fourteen, delivered a sermon before the gay sinners of the Hôtel de Rambouillet, at midnight. Voiture sat with his hat on to listen to the discourse, but when it was concluded, he uncovered, and making a low bow to the young orator,—“Sir,” said he, “I never heard a man preach at once so early and so late!” and the gallants putting on their plumed hats, declared with round oaths that Voiture’s wit had capped young Bossuet’s sermon!

It was in truth a strange locality, that same old Place Royale. The Arnault family, with their grave manners and fashions, were perhaps the worthiest of the residents of any age; but it is not among them that we must look for striking anecdotes respecting passing modes. These are more plentifully furnished by the household chronicles of the more worldly people. The Marchioness de Sablé and the Countess de Maure were among these latter. They were next-door neighbours, and they daily sent each other little _billets_, remarkable for the aristocratic contempt which they showed for orthography; and little patterns of head-dresses, quite as remarkable for their grace and “killingness.” It happened one day that the Countess was sick, and thereupon the Marchioness resolved to pay her a visit of condolence, in state. She was poor and proud, and her pride and poverty were displayed in the circumstance of ceremony, so to speak, with which she waited on her much-afflicted friend. She could not, like an honest woman, put on her bonnet and carry a posset under the folds of her farthingale to the noble patient. _That_ would have been derogatory to both noble houses. Accordingly, she descended her grand and not over-clean staircase, beneath a canopy which consisted of nothing more than the top and vallance of her cook’s bedstead, upheld on crossed staves by two grooms, who bore their burden with uncovered heads, as though royalty were walking beneath the striped-linen canopy of the old cook’s couch. But it was a canopy, and so there was dignity therein, though it was rather of a dusty sort.