IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

Marie Stuart shares with Madame de Pompadour the honour of standing godmother to fashions which will be known through the ages by their names. The former luckless lady will ever be associated with that coif which is pointed in the front, and curves at either side, while the latter stands eternal sponsor to the rolled coiffure which turns back from the face over a high pad. There may perhaps be other glories better worth attainment, but nobody respectfully imbued with the importance of dress can venture to assert that these ladies lived in vain.

And in a minor degree their privilege has been shared by others. The art of Gainsborough and of Watteau has immortalised a hat, a pleat, and a flowered sac; Madame du Barry has a special shade of pink consecrated to her memory; the lace collar which expands round the shoulders had at its christening no less a person than Catherine de Medici; and Napoleon gave his name to a hat. Of the more modern garments I could take as examples the cardigan, a waistcoat of wool named after a noble lord; and I could recall that another noble lord, one Spencer, introduced a short woollen jacket; and that the great general Garibaldi is responsible for the loose shirt with open collar; and that a peculiar kind of open-sleeved bed-jacket, known as the nightingale, is sacred to the heroic efforts of that devoted nurse who did such splendid duty at the Crimea.

Madame de Pompadour represented in her century everything that was most beautiful, most desirable, and most alluring, and she played her part as pioneer of fashion with a fierce, reckless enthusiasm, and, from the crown of her rolled hair to the tip of her embroidered shoes, expressed conclusively the prodigal and the pretty. Upon her feet she bestowed considerable attention, and narrow pointed shoes were amongst her innovations; she would have them decked with every conceivable conceit, and kick her red heels in defiance of public opinion. A pair of her shoes are even now kept in the Museum at Cluny, and these are embroidered in a design of green foliage, outlined with silver, clasped with silver buckles glittering with old paste. Fans also were amongst her weaknesses; she had these of every size and shape, with long handles which could not be folded, and mounts of carved and decorated ivory, some of her Chinese fans being worth a small fortune.

Mrs. Delany's letters may be the foundation for a liberal education in the art of costume as practised in England in the eighteenth century, and her description of Lady Huntingdon's dress at a Court ball is as vivid as remarkable, reflecting at once credit on the Boswell and the inspiration:—

Her petticoat was of black velvet embroidered with chenille, the pattern a large stone vase filled with ramping flowers, which spread almost over the breadth of the petticoat from the top to the bottom; between each vase of flowers was a pattern of gold shells and foliage embossed and most heavily rich. The gown was white satin embroidered also with chenille mixed with gold, no vase on the sleeve, but two or three on the tail; it was a most laboured piece of finery, the pattern much properer for a stucco staircase than the apparel of a lady.

She also writes the description of a dress she is going to wear at the wedding of Princess Anne (George II.'s eldest daughter) and Prince William of Nassau and Orange in 1734:—

I have got my wedding garment ready; 'tis a brocaded lute-string white ground, with great ramping flowers in shades of purples, reds, and greens. I gave thirteen shillings a yard: which looks better than it describes, and it will make a show. I shall wear it with dark purple and gold ribbon, and a black hood for decency's sake.

And again she describes:

The Princess of Orange's dress was the prettiest thing that ever was seen—a corps de robe—that is, in plain English, a stiff bodied gown. The eight peers' daughters that held up her train were in the same sort of dress, all white and silver, with great quantities of jewels in their hair and long locks; some of them very pretty and well-shaped, it is a most becoming dress. The Princess wore a mantua and petticoat, white damask with the finest embroidery of rich embossed gold. On one side of her head she had a green diamond of vast size, the shape of a pear, and two pearls prodigiously large that were fastened to wires and hung loose in her hair; on the other side small diamonds prettily disposed; her ear-rings, necklace, and bars to her stays all extravagantly fine, presents of the Prince of Orange to her.

In the same letter she says: "The Queen commended my clothes."

In the reign of Louis XV. the English borrowed all their fashions from France. The beautiful Austrian, Marie Antoinette, came in a blaze of splendour to charm and astonish every one, and the loveliest ladies of her Court, headed by her friend the Princess de Lamballe, vied with her in inaugurating a reign of costume which was to have been "roses, roses all the way." Alas, however, thorns made themselves felt only too soon. In her early days the Queen seemed to have no care save that noble lover of hers and her dressmaker; and she studied the minor details of the etiquette of her Court so assiduously that we have the amusing history of her disrobing, surrounded by a bevy of ladies, each taking their turn in handing their royal mistress her chemise.

Marie Antoinette's delicate beauty called for pale colours, and green and pink and puce were amongst the favoured tones, the last mentioned taking its name from no more attractive source than the back of a flea. Her earlier dresses displayed stiff pointed bodices with stomachers, held with little tied bows of velvet, and paniers bunched liberally on the hips to show the under-dress of lace, bordered with flounces, headed and festooned with roses. The dÉcolletage was square, and the elbow sleeves had frills of lace.

The paniers grew daily in size, and evoked the inevitable denunciation which waits punctually upon the heels of any favourite of fashion. Marie Antoinette varied her corsets to suit her bodices, therein showing much wisdom, since obviously the short-waisted bodice asks beneath it a stay totally different from that needed beneath a bodice which is cut in a long point in front. Her fichus were as elaborate as dainty, and the method of their adjustment varied in half-a-dozen different ways—they would be crossed over the bust and tied at the back, or tucked into the waistband, or fastened high on the bust with bunches of ribbons or flowers.

No garment more attractive can be imagined than the dÉshabillÉ galant: a teagown of hers which was ruched from the neck round to the short train, and displayed a frilled front of lace or muslin tied with ribbons, and daintily flounced round the hem. Silks, satins, and brocades were used to make these, but shot silk enjoyed supreme patronage; and the favourite dressmaker, Madame Bertin, was a heroine of vast importance, a genius of diplomatic habits, who played most successfully upon the fancies of her royal patron, bringing her every day some new device in paniers or sumptuous train which it was impossible to resist.

Marie Antoinette adored feathers, and the panache flourished under her favour, and boldly survived her mother's reprimand. "You have sent me the picture of an actress, not of a Queen," she wrote, upon receiving a picture of her daughter in a prodigious head-dress of feathers and jewels. Jewels, it is well known, were amongst Marie Antoinette's weaknesses. Did not they inspire that romance of the Queen's necklace which has pursued us for many years in various works of fiction and drama, and is still regarded as vitally interesting?

But let me return to England, and repeat that French fashions were treated with servility, if not with complete success, for somehow the English women were too ponderously exact in their method of adjustment to toy triumphantly with the many accessories of lace, and ribbon, and velvet, and buckles, and ruchings which were essentially the distinguishing features of these styles. And, also, the small feet of the French women encouraged much attention to dainty shoes, with coloured heels and embroidered toes, and to these the national deficiencies or superfluities of the English women were rather a drawback. However, they followed the French fashions at a distance, and bestowed most earnest attention upon hair-dressing, which assumed formidable proportions during this period, and rose higher and ever higher, to be topped by ornaments as incongruous, as hideous. The skilful hair-dresser who could "build" a head was at a premium; the art of hair-dressing being reckoned as one of the most important, and as rare as difficult. No lady's maid, however clever, was entrusted with this difficult task, and very complicated was the work of constructing the popular coiffure, which was piled half a yard high, and decked with pads, and false hair, and curls so stuck down and plastered with pomades that they might hold for weeks without being pulled down. So monumental were these erections that collapsible frames had to be made, so that ladies could pass through doors and get into their sedan-chairs. Windmills and ships in full sail, fruit and balls were added to the pile, and ostrich plumes nodded boldly amongst a profusion of ribbons and flowers.

The aristocratic was of course the only class that could afford these most elaborate styles, where so much curling and frizzing appeared in large masses in front that iron hairpins were used to keep these in place at the top lest they should fall crushed beneath their own weight.

The hats were worn rather far back to show these curls, and many had long ends of ribbon hanging down at the back, and others had low crowns and wide brims trimmed with flowers. What was known as a "fly" cap was a large butterfly edged with jewels, and crownless hats became the fashion; invented so as not to spoil the high coiffure, they boasted nothing but brim, and were delegated to do duty only in the finest weather. The calash, which resembles comically the hood of a baby's perambulator, could be drawn back or over the face at will, and was tied with strings. Straw hats obtained, as well as those of silk and velvet, and a mob-cap created such a sensation at Ranelagh, the popular resort of the moment, that all the women were crying out for one before the sun had risen and set again. The mob-cap was made of blonde, flowers, ribbons, and muslin; but so great was the craze for hair-dressing and head decoration that every sort of cap and hat gained some attention in turn, and amongst them were hoods of lace or velvet, edged with fur, and crÊpe turbans held with jewels, with a group of feathers waving proudly on the top. The famous "Devonshire" hat of black with white feathers showed well the curls and rolls, which extended to the back of the head when it had been realised that the straight clean upward sweep to the top pinnacle of the puffs was a disadvantage to the contour not to be permitted. Of the prettiest of the fashions were the broad-brimmed hats of black chip, and the Rubens hats of black velvet; and the straight-crowned gipsy hats were really quite charming; but the winged Mercury hat received more popularity than it deserved.

The perruques of the men, even when fresh from the embraces of the curl-papers, must have looked very insignificant by the side of the huge erections which towered above the women, who did not scruple in their martyrdom to sit on the floor of a hackney coach so that the head-dress should not be disarranged, or to go to bed with their hair surrounded by a basket, or held in position by pillows and tapes. Happily the dancing of the period was of a stately kind, for the coiffure would have brooked no such frivolities as the "two-step," and the uproarious lancers of to-day would have made short work of the hair-dresser's labour of time and money.

The question of complexion was seriously studied, the colour of the chin and cheeks being carefully suited to the gowns. Patches were lavishly indulged in in England and France, the eyebrows were blacked and even false, and China, Spain, and Portugal all contributed—for a consideration—rouges and white lead and wash balls, scented lard and lip salves, and toilet waters and soaps.

The fan was an indispensable complement to every gown, and its best conduct was an art which might well have been added to the scholastic curriculum for women, always supposing the like in existence. The fans were made of chicken skin and painted; and chicken skin also had the privilege, with lace and an embroidery of gold and silver, in making gloves and mittens for evening wear.

Tight-lacing was de rigueur, and it is indeed impossible to imagine any discomfort omitted from the toilet. I cannot picture conditions more entirely unpleasant than to glaze the face with paint and grease of red and black, to decorate it at intervals with devices of sticking plaster, to supply it with false eyebrows, and to mount on the head some pounds' weight of stuffed hair, while reducing the waist at least three inches below the natural size, expanding the hips with whalebone and hoops, compressing the feet into narrow shoes, and carefully studying every movement of the arm so as to hold a fan at a significant and becoming angle. And to add to all this, the dresses were of the stiffest brocades, decked with gold and silver embroideries and tinselled fringes, velvet and fur increasing the burden.

The excessive elaboration of the hoods and the scarves and the aprons dangling with silver tassels and fringes was responsible for some criticism from Beau Nash, the autocrat of Bath, where he had established the strictest rules of dress and procedure, covering all delinquencies of conduct with a bearing of convincing dignity set in an atmosphere of punctilious etiquette. Goldsmith gives an instance of the despotic rule of Nash, and of the special liberties he arrogated to himself. "I have known him on a ball-night strip even the Duchess of Q." (the "Kitty beautiful," as the poet Prior called this Duchess of Queensberry), "and throw her apron at one of the hinder benches among the ladies' women, observing that none but Abigails appeared in white aprons."

Women had indeed to suffer in those days to attain what they were pleased to call the beautiful, and it is quite a relief to remember the moment when Marie Antoinette took a sudden caprice to appear without hoops in a soft satin gown with wide sleeves, which set the fashion in London as well as in France. For a short time only, however, such moderation ruled, and the hoops came back larger than ever in 1784, when the Duchess of Cumberland swept the floor in five yards of brocade, and a stomacher blazing stiffly with jewels.

The pastoral simplicity of the Petit Trianon should have really made more lasting impression than it did. For the Court ladies played at milkmaids under the rule of their farmer Queen, and churned butter with their own fair hands, and found a wide field for dainty disguises in rustic and ruinous simplicity. The peasant girls' dresses of stuffs and muslin were glorified by rich silks and muslin and challis decked with lace fichus and crowned with rose-coloured and be-ribboned straw hats, and embroidered holland and Persian cambric were affected economies no less expensive than the maize-coloured silk and striped green and white satin of avowed prodigality. The Trianon was a happy hunting-ground for flirtation, but that is another story, indeed a great many; but it served too as a pretext for innumerable new frocks, and the colour-prints of the time convincingly prove the dainty possibilities afforded by the artifice of simplicity allied to a nice taste in ribbons.

We have to go back to the days of Marie Antoinette for a practice which aroused some interest and amusement when a dressmaker in London last year was fired with a desire to revive it. Gowns were invested with the power to express special emotion, and MoliÈre held the notion up to ridicule in his famous PrÉcieuses. Long narrow shoes with the seam at the heel, whose socket was studded with jewels, were called venez-y-voir; and this suggestion of forwardness was again evident in a ribbon which went by the name of "marked attention." Other absurdities often quoted were the gown known as the "stifled sigh," trimmed with "superfluous regrets," and the cap of "assured conquest," and a muff of "momentary agitation."

Towards the end of the reign of Louis XVI. the low head-dress came into fashion, the short curls being gathered into a knot of ribbon or "catogan," and the fair moderated their transports for powdered hair which had abundantly obtained in white, reddish blonde, and grey.

Marie Antoinette knew all there was to know of the art of dress, and recognising the supreme charm of caprice, she would ring every change in turn; and perhaps she never looked more exquisitely beautiful than when, her hair powdered and her face faintly lined by sorrow, she met the scaffold and the mob on the last day of her existence, in her plain black dress and simple white fichu.

---