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the train was worn with old loopings-up. We abstain, from pure charity, from describing the consequences. These follies have caused it to be said of our English women that they are ill-dressed. The cases we have given are extreme cases, and of course rare: but the same fault may be seen every day if you look out for them in any part of London frequented by people who ought to dress well.

No more becoming costume has been invented in our time than the looped-up velvet dresses with the petticoat showing beneath. Very pretty, very tasteful, very becoming, very convenient, and therefore they have been of very general adoption; but what havoc people have made with their appearance in the matter of petticoats! The velvet surface imperiously demanded the companionship of some refined material. Silk, or soft fine-textured wool of colours that were enriched by the accost of the black velvet were the only things admissible. But have we not seen coarse striped camlet, and scarlet camlet made staring by black braiding, or roughened by frills? It has been difficult to teach people not to choose a petticoat as a petticoat, but as an annexation to the gown. But then the old dread of expense rose up. Silk and satin petticoats! Impossible! These exquisite wools! why they are good enough for dresses themselves. Of course they are; they are for exhibition; with the upper velvet they make a costume. You must take your dress as a whole.

The persistence with which English women make mistakes arises unquestionably in a great measure from the rapidity with which they yield to other people's advice and assurances; and because they will not think for themselves.

A perfectly well-dressed gentlewoman in a milliner's room was giving directions for the changing of certain flowers in a bonnet she had been buying. Oh, don't change them!' cries a young friend; they are so lovely.' 'I can't afford to wear them, was the unexpected reply. It would cost me fifteen pounds. I have not an out-door

article in my wardrobe which could be worn with that exquisite shade of mauve.' The lady liked the flowers, but, first of all things, she considered herself.

But the English have lately learnt the beauty and the value of black. France certainly taught that to this country. It tones, unites, and yet gives distinctness. Two or three black dresses of good materials are necessary both for economy, effect, and convenience; a woman may then keep to a few colours as belonging to her style, and always preserve a well-chosen and harmonious exterior.

Last on our list of things that prevent our countrywomen from being well dressed is the dread of being thought fust. They will often be guilty of adopting a scrap of a costume, but they shrink from the whole. But all or none' is the dictate of common sense, as it is the law of fashion; and to escape the possibility of looking fust by the certainty of looking ridiculous is a very bad bargain. No one need be in a hurry to adopt a new thing. Wait. If you are doubtful, always keep quiet, and wait. But if a fashion comes in which appears to suit your life and promises to add to your comfort, study its accessories, and accept it at once. For one thing is certain-if a new fashion is convenient, dismisses a trouble from your life, and adds to your happiness, it will live. Short outdoor walking costumes, easily taken off and put on, being worn with bodices, have been acknowledged as a domestic mercy, and will live. The disappearance of covering from the back of the head would not have become so universal but for the uncomfortable crowns of the old-fashioned bonnets, which would not stay on the head, and were receptacles for all the winds that blew in the winter. At last people tied up their heads in an ornamental half-handkerchief, and got rid of them. The present style of bonnets may be carried to an extreme, but no woman old enough to remember the bonnet of the past can say they are uncomfortable; their work may not be much, but they do

it honestly; and they, too, will live, though changes may be made in them; the old bonnet which wearied the neck, rubbed the ears, and had to be tied severely tight under the chin to keep it from troubling the shoulders, will scarcely return in our time; its memory among surviving sufferers is too painful.


All good reasons for bad dressing may then be answered generally by two sentences of kind advice. your judgment with consideration and courage, and view your appearance as a whole. And now we will say one last word-as important as the proverbial postscript of a lady's letter. Let us bespeak attention, for we shall announce a discovery. There is a reason for English women being ill dressed-there is something that prevents the successful use of reason, and makes a perfect judgment impossible. It is this. That necessity among French women, the long looking-glass, is a luxury among English women, and scarcely to be found among house furniture below a certain position in life. How can anybody tell how she looks if she has no means of

seeing herself? The important length of dress, and sweep of train, and effect of trimming, is left to-luck! These great things take their chance. Ladies are condemned to see in their looking-glasses their faces only. Is it any wonder that there are a large number of persons whose whole idea of dress is confined to a bonnet? Possibly a generous ambition, if it be winter, has been satisfied by the possession of a sealskin jacket, the most enticing wear that was ever offered to woman; of course, after a gratified survey of a pretty head-dress, and sleeky shoulders, the poor lady goes off happy, dressed, probably, in a palish brown linsey and a green stuff petticoat.

'O wad some power the giftie gie us,
To see oursels as others see us.'

Husbands and fathers, ye are the powers; and the 'giftie,' depend upon it, is a long strip of lookingglass in an honest wooden frame, fastened to the wall of every room in which the ladies' question- What shall we wear?' is finally settled and acted on.


Y photograph-book is not one of the grandly-ornamented kind, which might meetly lie on a fair lady's drawing-room table, and it has no cunning device, such as a music-box deftly inserted on the covers-certainly the prottiest sort of photograph-album that has been contrived. Some of the photographs are rough, and they are all roughly kept, and I do not let the book lie about, not caring much that people should see it, if only on this account -that they would care little where I often care much. I never purchased a photograph simply for the sake of filling up my book, nor because a photograph is specially well done and a fine specimen of the art. I have hardly a photograph but some association is attached to it, and for the association's sake it keeps a place in my book. And


sometimes, as on this fresh spring

move, and the lengthening sunset invites to thought, I take down my photograph-book and idly turn over its memorial pages.

Some of the links of association are light enough, and are hardly more than those of mere locality. Here, for instance, is a rustic bridge over a brook in a deep Devonian lane. I was greatly struck with the Arcadian beauty of this lane, which lay not far from a famous wateringplace where I was staying, and so secured the photograph, and was much pleased to hear that the spot was the favourite of innumerable landscape-painters. It was here I parted with a strong and gifted friend, and I have just heard that in the suddenness and darkness of night he has been called away from

this world. This personal recollection gives individuality to my photograph of the rustic bridge. And, indeed, photographs of scenery multiply so much, that you need bring some human interest into them, to confer any specialty. For after all, beauty resides in the mind rather than in the object, and we bring to a landscape more than a landscape can bring to us. There are mental

moods in which sweet sights and sounds are merely mockery, and others where the simplest landscapes are invested with a meaning deeper than can be given by any interpretator

I see a hand you cannot see,

I hear a voice you cannot hear.'

Here, for instance, are photographs of some cathedrals. I chiefly keep them because they recal moods and feelings. These, you see, are foreign: Lausanne, Milan, Amiens.


and Lausanne I saw almost consecutively, and they are so contrasted. I keep Milan Cathedral, because I hardly suppose that on this side the grave I can ever receive a sensation of such beauty and wonder. Lausanne, in its severe Protestant simplicity, contrasts strongly, in this respect reminding me of Glasgow Cathedral, which I ought to have somewhere among these, but which, you know, is described, at least in part, in Scott's 'Rob Roy.' But Lausanne Cathedral is grand in its simplicity; and then to climb the tower and survey the wide panorama of lakes and mountains! and then to pace the terrace that Gibbon paced, and to walk in the garden where he walked, that still moonlit night, when he had written off the last page of his history! Amid all the rhetorical glitter of Gibbon's writings there are passages to be found that argue real feeling. Thus: There are two causes, the failure of hope and the abbreviation of time, which always tinge with a browner shade the evening of life.' The cathedral might have tanght him something better than this; but I am afraid that there is hardly a trace of any cathedral influence on the mind of Gibbon. And here is Amiens. I spent four-and-twenty hours here once, on purpose to ex

amine the cathedral, and see it in its morning and its evening aspect. I was coming back from Paris, and in its solemnity and quietude there was something very healing to the mind, after the frivolity and giddiness of Paris: for, candid reader, I dare say you have found out we do not all get to stay in Paris without becoming frivolous and giddy. And a cathedral like this-a poem in stones, thoughts in sculptures, devotion in the marble itself-recals us to the struggle and earnestness and solemnity of life. At the slightest touch, the cathedral portal yields to the seeking hand, and there is quiet space and breathing-time, if you only will, for thought and heavenward aspiration. Yes, these photographs recal phases of mind which it does one no harm to recollect; and I am sorry that my photograph-book has lain so long unopened. And not the less have those English cathedrals potent charms. I am especially attached to cathedrals, and it is my design to visit them every one, if life be spared. The majority of them are cleared off now, and the remainder may be hoped to prove comparatively easy. Here are two Welsh cathedrals which make cities of very little villages indeed. This is St. David's. Notice that massive tower, long beat by Atlantic storms. There was a Pope who declared that two pilgrimages to St. David's were equivalent to a pilgrimage to Rome: and I think he was about right. It lies far off, on a remote corner of the world, cut off even from decent roads, but close to a glorious granite headland and a wild, primitive country stretched around. It was a two days' business, and its photograph may very fittingly deserve this memorial place. Many, too, are the English cathedrals that I have. This one I keep-it is Gloucester-because I came out on a broad lawn and exactly realized some lines of Tennyson:

'As one who, standing where broad sunshine laves

The lawn of some cathedral, through the door

Hearing the holy organ'rolling waves

Of sound on roof and floor.'

This one I keep simply because I remember how grandly and densely the evening shadows gathered in that afternoon of the shortest day of the year, while a sweet silvery voice intoned the prayer, and the light on the altar just made the darkness visible. This one, because I remember how in a melancholy mood a glorious anthem made my grovelling thoughts soar upward, and I thought of good George Herbert's Sweetest of sweets, I thank you.' And this one I keep in remembrance of a good old bishop who, with failing sight, followed the fading daylight from room to room of his adjacent palace.

These are photographs of old, very old days, so old that I hardly dare to think of them; photographs of those who were my schoolfellows. There is, after all, few ties so strong as the school tie. And I have a theory on this subject. I think that the real character is shown even more in school life than in college life. The college life is often a transitional period. But what the boy is, clever and generous, or cunning and cruel, that in the long run he will show himself to be in mature life. The efflorescence of youth partially disguises theso innate qualities, but they must 'out' eventually. Now this fellow here I will just take one more look at him before I cut him out and consign him to the ashes-got a sentence of transportation or penal servitude. He was always a fellow of too much craft and too little principle, and none of us were astonished when that matter of the forgery leaked out. And yet he was an engaging dog. I had kept his photograph hitherto, because I happened to be with him when he was arrested. That was a sensation, if you like, and philosophers tell us this life is not to be measured by years but by sensations. I had gone out to see him in his little box near a large town where I had been staying. I knocked, I rang; I was conscious that I was being reconnoitred before I was admitted. Then Branscombe made his appearance. He didn't seem particularly overjoyed to see me, didn't Branscombe. It

was ten years since we were at school together, and looking back through that haze of time, Branscombe's image had appeared to me softly mellowed, and invested with a kind of moral halo which I am now convinced did not in the slightest degree belong to it. And don't you remember, Branscombe,' I said, poetically recalling the time when, as we went to the dormitories, we took surreptitious cuts at a ham suspended in a pantry close to the passage which we passed, and gloriously cooked them for supper, by the flame of our tallow dips. I think even Branscombe was affected by this touching incident, but before he could reply a policeman was discovered entering the front gate and leisurely advancing towards the door. And if ever you saw a man perfectly livid, Branscombe was that man. He told me that he would just go and wash his hands, but I have never seen him since. He disappeared through the back door, and cleared off somewhere, but a few weeks later he was apprehended, and a few months later he got his sentence. I bought his photograph to commemorate the spasm of astonishment with which I underwent some sharp interrogatories by the policeman, who suspected me of connivance in the escape, and bave put him in my book, from which I now solemnly depose him. But let me, for the sake of my own credit and respectability, hasten to add that my schoolfellows were by no means uniformly of a felonious character. The next one is a County Court judge, a fellow of infinite jest,' and I wonder why he allowed himself to be shelved into a County Court judgeship, when it was quite on the cards that he might become Solicitor-General. He tells me-in confidence that it is an unfortunate circumstance that he is a local judge, that he is confined to one set of towns instead of going circuit like the Westminster judges. Every now and then he has to decide cases where the parties are his friends and neighbours, and in a great number of cases he has a good chance of offending people. It is rather an awkward thing, if, just

before one of these cases comes on, he happens to have received a present of grapes from the hothouse or of game from the preserves. There is the slightest possible flavour of a bribe about it, and if you decide against your generous friend, human nature being what it is, he can hardly help accusing you of ingra titude. Here is my most distinguished photograph of the lot. I think I must take him out and put him in a room where callers may see him and I can casually speak of him as my oldest and most valued friend. He is a great dignitary now, but whether in Church or State I must decline to say. Only he says, that as a dignitary he is rather made to feel the fetters. He is a man who likes to be very loose about the neck, and smoke a short pipe, and go out in a shooting-jacket and do a lot of shooting, and he finds that these things are impracticable now, and Mill On Liberty' will never make it anything else for him.

A set of views, very enjoyable when I viewed them, but too trite for discussion; Matlock, Kenilworth Castle, the Warwick Road, Buxton and Bakewell Road, Rydal, Wentwater, Taymouth Castle and the Tay, the Devil's Bridge, near Aberystwith, ditto on the Gothard Pass, ditto somewhere else; the Land's End, the archipelago of the Scilly Isles; Thames at Eton, at Maidenhead, at Cliefden, at Teddington, and so on, kept here from a much larger number on account of the friends who were my companions. Here are the dates: July 10th, Aug. 14th, Sept. 6th, Oct. 3rd, 185-186-. Ah! these were immemorial scenes, but, as I said, they all have their special colouring from the tone and attitude of mind in which they were seen. Do you see this rocky height, sparsely adorned with a few cypresses and pines? It has a history for me. There I made my two earliest assignations, which came to nothing. In the first case the young lady did not keep tryst; in the next case I ignobly failed in the tryst myself. The simple reason was that I had had a bad night, and had overslept myself. But I never saw


the girl again; the family emigrated, I believe, and were lost on the voyage to Australia. The first was a little gay deceiver. From that height I could look across a range of country, and just discern a manorial dwelling-house. From a lodge-gate there is a long sweep of an avenue to the house. Now that house held a young lady of whor as a collegian I was desperately enamoured. We will come to her photograph presently. It is only a few pages off, with a bevy of accompanying nymphs. I used to write verses for that girl, and a friend of mine put them to music. She was very civil to me, because she was an æsthetic sort of girl, and liked the compliment of the music and verses. But I knew there was a fellow, worth very many thousand pounds, ahead of me,

Slight Sir Robert, with his watery smile And educated whisker.'

That girl might justly be called the Refuser. I have never met ber equal for the number of offers she got. To my certain knowledge I knew of three very fair ones which she received in the course of a couple of days. One night, in a very scntimental frame of mind, I struck out of the city towards that countryhouse which enshrined the beauty. It was nearly midnight when I arrived at the lodge-gate. I stood leaning over it. In a bedroomwindow-her window-there was a light burning. I vaulted over the gate, and in a moment I was on the lawn. Then I listened most attentively. Possibly there might be a dog let loose somewhere. Possibly some gun, loaded with small shot, might be discharged against my sacred person. There was a burglary here some years ago, and since then I believe they have always been carefully provided with dogs and firearms. But I think of the charming beauty of the girl, and advance. A shadow flits across the blind, defined excellently well. I clasp my hand, and, like an infatuated idiot, I remain in a moonstruck attitude for the space of a quarter of an hour. Then the light has vanished, and as the night is

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