Macmillan's Magazine, ed. David Masson vol. 1 (1859-1860), pp. 211-218
ON THE SUBJECT OF CLOTHES:
BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN ;" A "LIFE FOR A LIFE," &c.
MY sight not being so good as it was,
my granddaughter is in the habit of
reading the Times aloud to me daily.
Possibly, this is not always a labour of
love, I being a rather fidgety listener, nor,
at the same time, one of those conceited
old persons who consider that to minister
unto them is to the young a privilege
invaluable. There have been times
when, perceiving Netty's bright eye
wander, and her voice drop into a
monotonous absent tone, I have inly
sighed over those inevitable infirmities
which render each generation in its turn
dependent on the succeeding one ; times
when it would have been easier to me to
get up a peevish "There, that will do,"
and forfeit my own undeniable pleasure,
than thus to make a martyr of my little
girl. But then, few can have lived
to my length of days without being
taught the blessedness of not only
labours of love, but labours of duty ;
and I am glad, even at the cost of some
personal pain, to see my grandchild
learning this lesson after me ; conquering
her natural laziness, accommodating the
frivolous tastes of youth to the prosy
likings of old age, and acquiring, even
in so small a thing as the reading of a
newspaper, that habit of self-control
and self-abnegation which we women
have to practise, with or against our
will, to the end of our lives.
So, after going steadily through the
leading articles—by the way, what a
curious fact of modern intellectual
advance is that page of Times leaders,
thought out with infinite labour, compiled
with surpassing skill, influencing
the whole world's destinies one day, to
become the next mere waste paper—
after this, I said to Netty, "Now, my
dear, I leave the choice to you ; read
anything that you consider amusing."
"Amusing !" As if she doubted
whether anything in the Times could
come under that head. But shortly her
countenance cleared. " ' An American
Bridal Trousseau,' will that do, Grannie
dear ? "
I nodded, and she began to read.
" ' Extraordinary Marriage Ceremony.
Cuban Don—Young Lady of New York.
Will no doubt amuse English ladies.'
Why, I declare, it's a list of her clothes !
And such a quantity ; only hear :—
' One blue silk, ruffled to the waist ;
' one green and white double skirt,
' trimmed with black lace ; one light
' blue silk chintz, flowers down the
' skirt, trimmed with deep fringe to
' match ; one steel-coloured silk, with
' purple velvet flowers, trimmed with
' wide bands of purple velvet, edged
' with black lace ; a surplus waist
' trimmed to match the skirt ; one
' Swiss dress, the skirt formed with
' clusters of ruffles and tucks, the waist
' to match ; one white Swiss muslin
' dress, five flounces, edged with narrow
' Valenciennes lace; one white Swiss
' dress skirt, with three flounces, three
' ruffles on each flounce, pink riband
' underneath ; one Swiss dress tucked
' to the waist ; six dresses of poplin,
' merino, and Ottoman velvet ;' "—
" Stop, stop ! let us take breath, child.
Poplin, merino, Ottoman velvet ; and
how many more was it ? Swiss muslin,
silk chintz, and something with a 'surplus
waist,' whatever that may be."
"Indeed, I don't know, Grandmamma,"
laughed the child ; "though you do
think me such an extravagant young
lady. Not so bad as this one, any how.
O, O, O ! Just listen : 'Eighteen street
' dresses, of rich, plain, and figured
' silks, double skirt and two flounces;
' also moiré antique, made in the newest
' and most fashionable style ; twelve
' afternoon dresses, consisting of grenadines,
' organdies and tissue, all varied
' in styles of making ; twelve evening
' dresses, one pink embossed velvet,
' trimmed with the richest point de
' Venise ; one white silk tunic dress,
' skirt embroidered and trimmed with
' blonde lace ; one pearl-coloured silk,
' double skirt, with bouquets of embossed
' velvet ; three white crape
' dresses, ornamented with bunches of
' raised flowers ; three white tulle
' dresses, with coloured polka spots of
' floss silk, to be worn over white silk
' skirts ; six dinner dresses, one white
' silk embroidered with gold ; one pink
' moiré antique, very elegant side
' stripes; one blue silk, with lace
' flounces ; one amber silk, with black
' lace tunic dress ; one black moiré
' antique, trimmed with velvet and
' lace ; one white moiré antique, with
' puffings of illusion, and the sleeves
' made in Princess Clothilde style ;
' twelve muslin dresses, made with
' flounces and simple ruffles ;' "—
"That's a mercy, girl. I began to
think the only 'simple' article the lady
possessed was her husband."
" Grandmamma ; how funny you are !
Well, will you hear to the end ? "
"Certainly. One is not often blessed
with such valuable and extensive
information. Besides, my dear, it
may be of use to you when the Prince
comes." .
(This is the name by which we have
always been accustomed to talk openly
of Netty's possible, doubtless she thinks
certain, lover and husband. Consequently,
to no ignorant lady's-maid or
silly young playfellow, but to her sage old
grandmother, has my child confided her
ideas and intentions on this important
subject, including the imaginary portrait,
physical and mental, of "the Prince,"
what she expects of him, and what she
means to be towards him. Also, in no
small degree, what they are both to be
towards their revered grandmamma. Poor
little Netty, she little knows how seldom
is any dream fulfilled ! Yet, if
never any more than a dream, better a
pure than a base, a high than a low, a
wise than a foolish one.)
" When the Prince comes," said the
little maid, drawing herself up with all
the dignity of sixteen ; "I hope I
shall think a great deal more of him
than of my wedding, and that he will
think more of me than of my wedding
clothes."
" Very well. Now, go on."
She did so ; and I here cut it out of
the newspaper entire, lengthy as the
paragraph is, to prove that I have not
garbled a line ; that I do "nothing
"extenuate, nor aught set down in
"malice," with regard to this young
American bride, whose name is not
given, and of whom I know no more
than the man in the moon :—
" Three riding habits, one black
" Canton crape, trimmed with velvet
" buttons ; one green merino, English
" style ; one black cloth, trimmed with
" velvet ; three opera cloaks, one white
" merino double cape, elegantly embroidered
" and trimmed with rich
" tassels ; one white cashmere, trimmed
" with blue and white plaid plush ; one
" grenadine, with riband quilling ;
" twenty-four pairs of varied coloured
" satin slippers, richly embroidered ;
" twelve pairs of white satin and kid
" slippers, plain ; twelve pairs of white
" satin and kid slippers, trimmed with
" riband ; six pairs of mouse-embroidered
" slippers, one pair of kid India
" mouse, embroidered ; one green and
" grey chenille, embroidered ; one purple
" and black silk, embroidered ; two pairs
" of brown Morocco plain French, all
" made à la Turque ; six pairs of slippers,
" variously embroidered in various
" colours for the toilet ; twelve pairs of
" silk and satin Français, dress, habit,
" and walking gaiters ; six pairs of walking
" and winter gaiters, double soles ;
" six street bonnets, made of the most
" recherché Swiss straws, trimmed with
" handsome riband ; one opera bonnet,
" made of white lace and long fancy
" marabout feathers ; one black and
" white royal velvet bonnet, trimmed
" with cluster of pink roses, intermingled
" with black velvet leaves ; six rich
" head dresses, consisting of chenille,
" pearl and gold, and other rich materials ;
" six sets of hairpins, of coral,
" turquoise, pearl, and gold ornaments ;
" six brettel capes of white tulle, trimmed
" in various styles of fancy velvet,
" chenille, and riband ; one Bruxelles
" point appliqué cape, trimmed with
" puffings of illusion and riband ; one
" dozen of French embroidered handkerchiefs,
" with initials richly embroidered
" in the corner ; one dozen of real point
" lace handkerchiefs ; one dozen of guipure
" lace handkerchiefs ; one dozen of
" pine-apple handkerchiefs, embroidered
" and trimmed with lace ; one dozen of
" fancy illusion sleeves for evening
" dresses, made flowing à la favorite ;
" two dozens of glove tops to match
" sleeves ; one pair of glove tops of point
" d'Alençon, trimmed with orange blossoms ;
" six sets of fancy wristlets, made
" of velvet and laces ; six French parasols,
" made of the most magnificent
" embossed velvet, with rich Chinoise
" carved handles ; also three coquette
" parasols, simple and elegant ; twelve
" pairs of open-worked and embroidered
" China silk hose ; twenty-four pairs
" plain silk hose ; twelve pairs Balmoral
" hose ; twelve pairs of Paris thread
" hose, open-worked ; twelve pairs of
" Paris thread hose, plain ; twenty-four
" pairs of rich French embroidered
" elastics ; twelve pairs of China silk
" under-vests ; twelve dozens of French
" kid gloves, of various colours ; twelve
" pairs of gauntlets, buckskin and kid ;
" twelve pairs of travelling gloves,
" gauntlet tops. The trousseau lace dress
" was the exact pattern of that used by
" the Princess Clothilde at the selection
" of the Empress Eugénie, having been
" reproduced in Europe expressly for
" this occasion. The lace is point plat,
" point aiguille, Chantilly, and Brussels—
" in fact, a combination of the
" most valuable lace known. Among
" the handkerchiefs were two of point
" d'Alençon lace, valued at 200 dollars
" each, and one Valenciennes, worth 250
" dollars, the richest ever imported."
Ending, my granddaughter regarded
me with a puzzled air—"Well?"
" Well, my dear ? " .
" What do you think about it all ? "
" I was thinking what a contrast all
these gowns are to the one the lady
must some day, may any day, put on—
plain white, 'frilled,' probably, but still
plain enough ; since after her first dressing,
or rather being dressed, in it, no one
will ever care to look at it or her any
more."
Netty started—"Grandmamma, you
don't mean a shroud ? "
"Why not, child?—when, flounce
and furbelow as we may, we shall all
want a shroud some time."
" But it is so dreadful."
" Not when one approaches as near to
the time of wearing it as I do. Nor, at
any age, is it half so dreadful to think of
oneself, or of any fair body one loves,
wrapped up in this garment,—as I
wrapped your mother up when you were
still a baby,—as to think of it decked
out like that young creature whose
'trousseau' forms a feature in the public
newspapers. She apparently comes
to her husband so buried in 'clothes'
that he must feel, poor man, as if he had
married a walking linen-draper's shop
instead of a flesh and blood woman, with
a heart and a brain, a sweet human
body, and a responsible immortal soul ;—
ask yourself would you wish to be so
married, Netty, my dear ?"
A toss of the curls, a flash of the
indignant young eyes—
" Grannie, I'd rather be married like
—like—Patient Griseldis ! "
Suggesting that, out of the region of
romance, Griseldis' costume might be, to
say the least of it, cold—I nevertheless
cordially agreed with my little girl, as a
matter of principle. And I half sighed,
remembering what was said to me about
forty years ago, when I came, with only
three gowns, one on and two off, a
moderate store of linen, and five golden
guineas in my pocket, to the tender arms
that would have taken me without a rag
in my trunk, or a penny in my purse—
ay, and been proud of it too ! I did not
tell Netty her grandfather's exact words ;
—but when she questioned, I gave her
a full description of the costume in
which I walked down the aisle of that
village church with young Doctor Waterhouse
—my dear husband that was then,
—and is now, though his tablet has been
in the said church aisle for twenty-two
years.
When Netty was gone to her music
lesson, I sat thinking—you hardly know
how much we old folk enjoy thinking ;
the mere act of running over mentally
times, places, people and things—moralizing
upon past, present, and future, and
evolving out of this undisturbed quietude
of meditation that wisdom which is supposed
to be the peculiar quality of old
age. May I be allowed to take it for
granted, therefore, that I am a little
wiser than my neighbours, if only, because
I have more opportunity than
they to ponder over what comes into my
head during the long solitudes that any
age may have, but old age must have ?
A solitude that ripens thought, smooths
down prejudice, disposes to kindness and
charity, and, I trust, gradually brings
the individual nearer to that wide-eyed
calm of vision with which, we believe,
we shall all one day behold all things.
I could not get her out of my head—
this New York belle, with her innumerable
quantity of clothes. For, disguise
them as you will into "dresses," "costumes,"
"toilettes," they all resolve themselves
into mere " clothes "—used for the
covering and convenience of this perishable
machine of bone, muscle, sinew, and
flesh—the temporary habitation of that
"ego"—the true "me" of us all. One
is tempted to inquire, viewing with the
mind's eye such a mountain of millinery,
what had become of this infinitesimal
"me"—the real woman whom the
Cuban gentleman married ? If it were
not crushed altogether out of identity
by this fearful superincumbent weight—
the weight—vide Times—of 16,400
dollars' worth of clothes?
The result of my thoughts is, if an
old woman may speak her mind, rather
serious : on this as well as the other
side of the Atlantic. For, not to lay
the whole burden on our Yankee sister
—poor girl, how do I know that she
may not be at heart as innocent a child
as my Netty ?—here is a paragraph I cut
out of another paper—headed—"Dress
at Compiègne."
" Four toilettes a day are about the
" general requirement, though there are
" days when only three are necessary ;
" the invitations are for eight days, and
" no lady is expected ever to be seen
" twice wearing the same gown. Count
" up this, and you will find an average of
" thirty-two toilettes to be carried to
'' the Court. Suppose a female invitée
" to have a daughter or two with her,
" you come at once to ninety or ninety-six
" dresses ! Now, the average of these
" gowns will be 250 francs (10l.), and
" you reach for each person the figure of
" 300l. or 320l. ; if two persons, 640l. ;
" if three, 960l."
And all for one week's clothes !!
Far be it from me to undervalue
dress. I am neither Quaker, Puritan,
nor devotee. I think there is not a
straw to choose between the monk of
old, whose washing days occurred about
twice a lifetime, and the modern "saint,"
who imagines he glorifies God by means
of a ragged shirt and a dirty pocket-handkerchief ;
they are both equal, and
equal fools. Scarcely less so is the
" religious" woman who makes it a
matter of conscience to hide or neutralize
every physical beauty with which
Nature has endowed her ; as if He, who
"so clothes the grass of the field" that
even the meanest forms of his handiwork
are lovely beyond all our poor
imitating, were displeased at our delighting
ourselves in that wherein He must
delight continually. As if "Nature"
and "grace" were two opposite attributes,
and there could be any beauty in
this world which did not proceed direct
from God.
No ; beauty is a blessing ; and everything
that innocently adds thereto is a
blessing likewise, otherwise we should
never have advanced from fig-leaves and
beasts' skins to that harmony of form
and colour which we call good " dress,"
particularly as applied to women. From
the peach-cheeked baby, smiling from
behind her clouds of cambric, or her
swansdown and Cashmere—fair as a
rose-bud "with all its sweetest leaves
yet folded''—to the picturesque old
lady with her silver-grey or rich black
silks, her delicate laces and her snowy
lawns—there is nothing more charming,
more satisfactory to eye and heart, than
a well-dressed woman. Or man either.
We need not revive the satire of Sartor
Resartus, to picture what a ridiculous
figure some of our honourable and dignified
friends would cut on solemn occasions,
such as a Lord Mayor's Show, a
University procession, or a royal opening
of Parliament, if condemned to strut
therein after the fashion of their ancestors,
simply and airily attired in a wolfskin,
a blanket, or a little woad and red
ochre, and a necklace of beads,—to be
quite convinced of the immense advantages
of clothes.
No ; whatever Netty may think when
I check her occasional outbursts of linen-drapery
splendour, I do not undervalue
dress either in theory or practice ;
nor, to the latest hour of conscious volition,
shall she ever see her grandmother
looking one whit uglier than old age
compels me to look. But every virtue
may be exaggerated into a vice ; and I
often think the ever-increasing luxury
of this century is carrying to a dangerous
extreme a woman's right of making
herself charming by means of self-adornment.
First, it seems to me that the variety
exacted by fashion is a great evil.
Formerly, our ancestresses used to dress
richly, handsomely ; but it was in a
solid, useful style of handsomeness.
Gowns were not made for a month or a
year ; they were meant to last half a
lifetime, or, perhaps, two lifetimes ; for
they frequently descended from mother
to daughter. The stuffs which composed
them were correspondingly substantial ;
I have a fragment of my grandmother's
wedding-dress—stripes of pale
satin and white velvet, with painted
flowers—which might have gone through
every generation from her to Netty without
being worn out. This permanence
of costume, both as to form and material,
besides saving a world of time and
trouble, must have given a certain
solidity to female tastes very different
from the love of flimsy change which is
necessarily caused by the ever-shifting
fashions and showy cheapnesses of our
day. I may have an old woman's prejudice
in favour of the grave rather than
the gay ; but Netty never takes me with
her to choose her "summer dresses,"
that amidst all the glittering display I
do not heave a sigh for the rich dark
satins of my youth, that "stood alone,"
as dressmakers say—fell into folds, like
a picture ; and from month to month,
and year to year, were never taken out
of the drawer without seeming to dart
from every inch of their glossy surface
the faithful smile of an old friend—
"Here I am, just as good as ever ; I
can't wear out."
Looking the other day at the exquisite
architecture, without as within, of
Westminster Abbey, and thinking what
infinite pains must have been bestowed
upon even every square yard, I could
not but contrast that century-grown,
grand old building, in which each
builder, founder, or workman was content
to execute his small fragment, add
it to the slowly-advancing magnificent
whole, and, unnoted, perish ;—I could
not, I say, help contrasting this with
the Sydenham glass palace, the wonder
of our modern day ; but fifty years
hence, where will it be ? No less the
difference between those queenly costumes
made permanent on canvas or in
illuminated missals—rich, sweeping, majestic ;
conveying, not the impression of
a gown with a woman inside it, or a
woman used as a peg whereon to hang a
variety of gowns, but a woman whose
gown becomes a portion of herself—a
half invisible yet important adjunct of
her own grace, sweetness, or dignity,
though it would never strike one to
criticise it as fashionable or unfashionable :
certainly never to ask the address
of her mantua-maker.
And this, it appears to me, is the
limit at which expensive dress becomes,
in every rank and degree, first a folly
and then a sin—namely, when the
woman is absorbed in, and secondary to,
the clothes. When the planning of
them, the deciding about them, and the
varying them, occupy so much of her
time or attention that dress assumes an
importance per se, and she consequently,
in all circumstances and societies, is
taught to think less of what she is than
of how she is attired. This, without
distinction of station or wealth ;—for the
maid-servant, sitting up of nights to put
a flounce to her barège gown, or stick
artificial flowers under her tiny bonnet,
is just as culpable as the Empress
Eugénie, wearing and exacting four new
toilettes per diem. And equally does one
grieve to contemplate the American
belle, taking out of her youthful love-dreamings,
or her solemn meditations on
the state which, as Juliet says,
"Well thou knowest, is full of cross
and sin "—
the time required merely to choose and
order those fourscore dresses, which,
granted that she is rich enough to afford
them, she can never possibly wear out
before fashion changes. Lucky will be
her lady's-maid, or maids, for she must
require as many "dressers" as a royal
personage ; and lucky the New York
buyers of cast-off garments for years to
come.
Then—the packing! Even should
the "Cuban don" travel in the style of
a hidalgo, he cannot fail to be occasionally
encumbered by the multiplicity of
boxes which accompany his fair lady.
And arrived at home—if he may hope
for such a word—will it not take an
entire suite of rooms in which to stow
away that fearful amount of finery.
"My love," we can imagine the poor
gentleman saying, when fairly distracted
by the goodly array, "get rid of it anywhere
you like ; I don't care ; I married
you, and not your clothes."
A sentiment not uncommon to the
male species. If women who are supposed
to dress to please this sex did but
know how much valuable exertion in
that line is entirely thrown away upon
them—how little they care for "white"
tulle with coloured polka spots"—
"moiré antique with puffings of illusion,"
—a poor illusion, indeed,—and
how indifferent they are to the respective
merits of "point plat," "point aiguille,"
Brussels and Valenciennes! Even in his
most rapturous moment of admiration, a
man is sure to say, generalizing, "How
lovely you look!" never, "What a
sweet pretty dress you have on !"—The
tout ensemble is all he notices. Most
likely, he will approve more of your
neat gingham or snowy muslin—or perhaps
your rich dark silk with a bright
ribbon that catches his eye and pleases
his sense of colour—than he will for
your toilette most "soignée," with all its
extravagance of trimmings and ornaments.
Especially if he sees upon you
that ornament which all the milliners
cannot sell, nor all the beauties buy—" a
meek and quiet spirit," which is, in the
sight not only of God but man, "of
great price."
" My poor New York bride," moralized
I ; "I wonder if, among your
innumerable ornaments, you have ever
dreamed of counting that !" .
Viewed in this mood, the clothes
question becomes a serious thing. It is
not merely whether or no a lady is justified
in spending so much money upon
dress alone—or even the corresponding
point, whether or no such ultra expense
on costume be "good for trade." It
becomes less a social and political than a
moral question. Even though this extravagant
personal luxury be temporarily
beneficial to commerce, to countenance
it is most assuredly "doing evil that
good may come ;" injuring fatally the
aggregate morals of a country, and lowering
its standard of ideal right—the
first step in its decadence and ultimate
degradation. For what sort of men and
women are likely to grow up from the
children of a generation which has its
pocket-handkerchiefs of "point d'Alençon,
" valued at 200 dollars each, and
" Valenciennes, worth 250 dollars—the
" richest ever imported" ? O, my sisters
over the water, these were not the sort
of brides who became Cornelias, Volumnias,
and mothers of the Gracchi !
Perhaps there was some foundation
in the cry set up and laughed down, a
while ago, that the terrible commercial
crisis of 1857 was caused by the extravagance
of women's dress, especially American
women. Even with us here, many
prudent, practical young fellows, not too
deeply smitten to feel "all for love, and
the world well lost," yet secretly craving
for home, and its comforts and respectabilities,
and acute enough to see that a
bachelor is never worth half so much,
either to himself, society, or the State,
as a man who is "married and settled,"
may yet often be deterred from that salutary
duty by—what ? A vague dread of
their wives' clothes.
Not quite without reason. No wonder
that when he comes home from the
blaze of an evening party to his Temple
chambers or the snug solitudes of his
Fellow's den, the worthy gentleman
shivers inwardly at the idea of converting
himself into a modern Orestes, haunted
by winged Eumenides of milliners' bills—
of having a large proportion of his hard-earned
family income frittered away in
"loves of laces," "exquisite ribbons,"
and all the fantasies of female dress
which a man's more solid taste generally
sets down at once as "rubbish." In
which, not seldom, he is quite correct.
Women's modern propensities in this
line might advantageously be restrained.
It is frequently not the dress which
costs so much as its extras ; which
rarely add to the effect, but often quite
destroy that classic breadth and unity
which, to my old-fashioned eyes, is one
of the greatest charms in any costume.
It is astonishing how much may be
saved in the year by this simple rule,
Never buy fripperies.
I have one more word to say, and
then I have done.
A woman should always remember
that her clothes should be in expense
and quantity proportioned to her own
circumstances, and not those of her neighbour.
The mingling of classes is good
—that is, the frequent association of
those persons who in effect form one
and the same class, being alike in tastes,
sympathies, moral purpose, and mental
calibre,—however various be their degrees
of annual income, worldly station,
profession, trade, or unemployed leisure.
Provided always that the one meeting-point,
which likewise can alone be the
fair point of rivalry, lies in themselves
and not their externals. How can
I, who have but 200l. a-year, dress like
my friend Mrs. Jones, who has 2000l. ?
—but is that any reason why I, who
am, I hope, as true a gentlewoman as
she is, should eschew her very pleasant
society, or, out of mere cowardice, ruin
myself by mimicking her in the matter of
clothes ?—Nothing is so fatal as the ever-increasing
habit that I notice, of each
class dressing, or attempting to dress, in
a style equal to the class above it—the
maid imitating her mistress, the young
shop-girl the woman of fortune, and so
on. Even mothers of families one sees
continually falling into this error, and
wearing gowns, shawls, &c., that must
of necessity have pinched the family income
for many a day. My dear ladies,
will you not see that a good daily joint
of meat on your table is far more conducive
to the health and happiness of
those sitting round it, than the handsomest
silk gown placed at the head of
it ? that a good, well-paid domestic servant
(and you cannot expect a good one
unless well-paid) is of more worth to you
and yours, in absolute comfort, than the
very grandest of milliners or dressmakers ?
I have lived long, my dears, and worn
out a considerable quantity of linen-drapery
in my time ; but I can fearlessly
assert that, at every age, as a young girl
at home, a matron in her own house, and
an old lady free to spend her income in
her own way—the one economy which I
have always found safest to practise, as
being least harmful to oneself, and least
annoying to other people, was—"clothes."
And I shall try, if possible, to teach it to
my granddaughter. Not that mean
economy which hides poor materials by
a tawdry "making-up"—disguising cheap
silks, coarse linen, and flimsy muslin by
a quantity of false lace, sham jewellery,
dirty ribbons, and un-natural flowers,—
but that quiet independence with which,
believing that the woman herself is
superior to anything she wears, we just
wear fearlessly what suits our taste and
our pocket—paying a due regard to
colours, fashions, freshness, and cleanliness—
but never vexing ourselves about
immaterial items, and as happy in a
dress of last year's fashion as if we had
at command the whole establishment of
the renowned Jane Clarke, who, they
say,—but for the credit of womanhood I
hope it is untrue,—ordered herself to be
buried in a point lace shroud.
Ay, as I reminded my little Netty—
we must all come to this last garment.
To an old woman—who never will put
off her black gown except for that white
one—the matter of clothes seems often
a very trivial thing, hardly worth, indeed,
the prosy dissertation I have been
led to give upon it. Let us only so
clothe ourselves, that this frail body of
ours, while it does last, may not be
unpleasing in the sight of those who
love us ; and let us so use it in this life
that in the life to come it may be found
worthy to be "clothed upon" with its
Maker's own glorious immortality.