# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Dress and the age - Part 1

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DRESS AND THE AGE.
The tendency of modern dress is to give greater youthfulness to the appearance. This is especially the case in regard to men’s dress. The introduction of the turned-down collar, and its adoption by persons of all ages, took off ten years from the aspect of Englishmen generally. With the roideur of dress went also the stiffness of advanced age. The peace after Waterloo dealt the first blow to senility, by permitting civilians to discard at will the ​hitherto almost compulsory white neckcloth. The bold innovator who appeared at Almacks’ in trousers, and justified his renunciation of breeches on the ground that his legs were crooked, submitting that fact to the Ladies’ Committee for verification, kicked down the remains of the old dress fabric.
The external symbols formerly considered appropriate to the advancing stages of life having been abolished, it is difficult now to judge correctly of a person’s age. In our own recollection the man of seventy looked his years; at this day he might pass as sixty, or even fifty-five, for anything we can determine. The gradations of time on the stage were still more marked. A father of the last-mentioned age used to be represented as an old gentleman,—wore a wig, or long white hair,—
And his breeches, and all that, Were so queer.
Increased ease in manners has kept even steps with that of dress, and has doubtless been affected by it. When nightcaps and trouser-straps were thrown to the winds, men found, with additional bodily freedom, a corresponding mental emancipation. Unquestionably, there is a danger of the reaction being too great: an imminent danger of plunging from rigidity into a rude negligence. Our countrymen are no longer accused by continentals of the stiffness of their attire, but of its nondescript vulgarity. The French are very fond of caricaturing their British neighbours in the article of dress, but the mass of Frenchmen are bad dressers themselves. An elaborable quiz, seen in the shop windows in Paris and elsewhere, called “L’Anglais à Mabille,” presents an extraordinary combination of colour and form, and it would not be recognised as an Englishman except by the title at foot. Much of the bad taste now seen in men’s dress here—a sloppy description of clothes—is borrowed from our French contemporaries.
In ladies’ dress, the greatest coup in modern times has been the restoration of the close-fitting sleeve. The True in Principle.It was a return to the true principles of taste. With many variations, and an occasional attempt of dress-makers to discard it, the natural sleeve keeps its place, and has done so now for years. The stomacher was a fanciful reproduction of the Elizabethan age. So far it was looked upon with favour for a considerable period; but it was a mistake. It was a protracting of the waist far below its real position; and, at one time, fanaticism brought the point down almost to the knees. The introduction of the hat instead of the bonnet was a great modern gain. Even the much-abused “pork-pie” brought out our country-women’s beauty in no small degree.
The cardinal canon in costume is, that dress should conform itself to the human figure. It is not intended by this that persons of both sexes are to go about in elastic tight coverings, or that no liberty or variation within limits is permissible. But wherever dress greatly deviates from the form,—goes upon lines not in harmony with those of the person,—there is error, there is bad taste. Dress is to run its epicycle over the curves and contour of the body. The False in Principle.The hooped petticoat or steel skirt, foolishly called crinoline, conceals the form, and, when excessive, reduces a lady to a pyramid. It is not likely, however, that this controverted instrument will be talked down, because it has its aspect of health and convenience.
The application and power of colour are known to all intelligent dressers. Redundancy of figure is to be killed or kept down by black and dark tints, whilst, to deficiency in fulnesss, white and light-hued materials give the greatest breadth and outline. Many years ago, waist-bands were much worn by ladies. They were frequently made of two colours, longitudinally divided: and those for whom they were intended were quite aware that, by wearing the dark portion of the ribbon downwards, it increased the conic diminution of the waist, whilst the light portion above gave force to the spring of the bust.
In the selection of colours “that go together,” ​in the frequent sobriety of tone in their dress, and in their careful interposition of a wide space of neutral between opposed colours worn at the same time, consists the famed superiority of the Parisian lady over the Englishwoman. It is said commonly, also, that the former invariably “knows how to put on a shawl,” implying that our ladies have not that knowledge. The “Gigot.”Our belief is, that English ladies possess, by whatever means obtained, a considerable taste and skill in dress; but it may be years before a cry to the contrary will subside. It does not matter how well anybody does anything, if there is unfortunately a cry against him raised by designing people, and continued by uninquiring ones. Frenchwomen can, and do often, dress vulgarly, with an ostentatious disregard to rule, and with violent and novel colouring. If you should see the bonnet pathetically described by Haynes Bailey,—that bright blue bonnet, when its renovator was about to “trim it with yellow, and line it with green,”—it would probably be on the head of a Frenchwoman.
The effects of colour on complexion are learnt from experience; and the subject cannot be treated successfully in a short paper like the present. Portrait artists know how many are the colours that mingle in one face, and slightly varying proportions and small omissions produce differences in the skin, so that colours which suit one person are not becoming to another, although the complexions of the two are supposed to be the same. A candid friend, or the more candid looking-glass, must be the ultimate appeal. Now that we have touched the delicate subject of the mirror, let us notice the fact of how much the position of a glass, in reference to the light, has to do in making a person satisfied or discontented with his, or her, appearance. The most flattering position for the glass is when placed between two windows, the equal cross light reducing inequalities and roughnesses to a minimum. The most unbecoming reflexion is from a glass in front of a window, the only one in a room. It is remarkable, and perhaps unexplained, that any irregularity of the features, anything out of drawing in the face, is increased when seen in a glass. There is a great difference in the colour of the glass itself: some glasses are very pure and white; The Oval.some have a greenish tinge, necessarily producing disheartening reflexions.
Returning to form, we must own that the bonnet adopted for the last two or three years—the spoon-bonnet in all its varieties and sub-species—is most reprehensible. If an ellipse is needed, the longer axis is required across the brow. By generating two ellipses from the chin, the oval face and the oval bonnet—the latter including the former, and having the same perpendicular axis,—the effect is most disagreeable. Contrast with these the Norma wreath, the Mary-Queen-of-Scots head-dress, or even the bonnet in fashion four years ago. Pile Pelion on Ossa; put inside the spoon, above the forehead, Paris, June, 1863.London, July, 1863.a large bouquet of flowers, and make feathers nod over the extreme summit, as we saw in Paris last June; or bring the hair above the head, on cushions surmounted by a crown of stars, as we have seen in a London theatre in July this year,—yet taste and simplicity will triumph over what is artificial and unsymmetrical.
One observation about milliners and modistes, and our few remarks on modern dress are finished. Why is it that when the tide of taste turns in our favour—when, after many efforts, we at last apprehend simplicity, and rejoice that a female costume rather enhances than detracts from its wearer’s natural beauty—why is it, we ask, that the flood so soon turns, and that next season the charming head-gear and the becoming sleeve have ​been displaced, and that something different, not so pretty, not so correct, is the only thing to wear? What was round has become elongated; what was small is enlarged; lines which ran transversely are now longitudinal. The word different contains the secret. The law-giver is the artiste in robes and bonnets. There must be activity, there must be business; there must be such variations this season that a last season’s dress or hat shall be instantly detected and known, and its wearer held up to well-merited ignominy. It does not matter to Madame Lucile or Mdlle. Henriette, whether ladies wear what is intrinsically better or more becoming to them, but they shall wear something that is different; and their steps must wear the staircase of Madame Lucile and Mdlle. Henriette. Hopeless, therefore, is the struggle after æsthetics in dress when the trade depend on violent changes. Happily the people at large—the masses, if you will—are not equally constrained. They too rapidly seize on what is new, and often retain what is really pretty. Some of the best of modern changes in dress are already adopted as national costume. What, for instance, can be more becoming than the prevailing dress of our female servants: the well-fitting dress, cotton, or dark material; the snowy apron; the round cap of lace, below which appears the knot of glossy, well kept hair; the close, short sleeve; the white stocking? Observe the female domestics of good houses, and it will be thought that they have hit a happy mean in dress, and have succeeded in combining in a remarkable manner the elegant and the modest.
Berni.