The French women are more graceful and more piquant than the English; but they are less healthy and less fresh-looking. Their eyes are brighter, their mouths much prettier, and their figures a great deal finer; but their complexion is not so clear, nor nearly so fine.

Regular walks and baths are the secret of the health and beauty of the English woman. She fears neither draught nor douche. She sleeps with her window open, and, on rising, inundates herself with cold water. In winter weather, the least hardy wrings a hard towel in water, and rubs herself with it from head to foot to promote the circulation of the blood, till her skin shrieks for mercy. The appetite thus awakened, she descends, fresh and vigorous, to breakfast heartily on eggs and cold meat, and then sets out for the lawn-tennis ground, or goes about her daily task.

It is in the fields, or on the lawns of their gardens; always in open air, that most Englishwomen pass six months of the year.

The neck is very freely displayed in England by ladies in evening dress; less so, however, than formerly, I am told. It would seem as if, starting from the head downwards, an Englishwoman did not mind how much she uncovered herself: provided she does not show her feet, she is happy. When the streets are muddy—and Heaven knows what black, dirty mud we have in London—you will never see the women lift their skirts as they walk; they seem by instinct to prefer getting them muddy to the waist. Consequently, the gentleman who follows a neat pair of ankles in Paris is never seen in London.

The Englishwoman’s skin is generally fine, and beautifully white and smooth; satin and alabaster; a neck like the swan’s. The shoulders and hips are frequently too narrow; and, unfortunately, the bosom is too often a quantitÉ nÉgligeable in the enumeration of an Englishwoman’s charms. But when there is something to display, good heavens, how proud they are of it! They carry it like church banners.

The first thing that strikes one in Paris on arriving from England is the embonpoint of the women. By the powers! they seem to be having a good time under the Republic. What development! What exuberance! Ladies, it is really alarming: a little moderation, pray, or you will soon have to throw your corsets over the hedge.

The Englishwoman walks on the flat foot, and lets her arms hang; the Frenchwoman puts her toes to the ground first, and her arms are folded in front of her: it is more graceful, but not so comfortable. The last time I visited Paris, I saw with pleasure that the high, pointed heels, that were stuck in the centre of the sole, had begun to give place to the English heels: this is a great progress.

And, mesdames, since you are beginning to imitate what is sensible in the English toilette, allow me to give you a piece of advice that your husbands will be very pleased to see you follow.

It is you who have the honour of setting the fashion to the civilized world. You wear your clothes so gracefully, and you are so charming, that even a frying-pan would look pretty on your heads. But I object to your hats and bonnets. Yes, those tyroliens, loaded with feathers, aigrettes, pompons, birds, fruit, and what not, are very dear and exceedingly ugly. You seek too much to attract to your hats that attention which should be bestowed entirely on your matchless eyes.

The wife of a clerk in Paris with about a hundred and fifty pounds a-year, will tell you that it is impossible to get a decent bonnet for less than forty or fifty francs. What folly! I know perfect ladies in England, who, for about five or ten shillings, make their own, and charming bonnets they are: simple, quiet, and most stylish. In England, only dealers in cast-off clothing would think of getting themselves up in those gigantic constructions, covered with currants, cherries—when shall we have the pumpkin?—that I noticed in the windows of the grand bonnet shops in Paris.

Come, mesdames, turn over a new leaf. Let me recommend you, for instance, the little “Princess” bonnet, so called because of the partiality shown for it by the Princess of Wales. It is a simple little form, made of straw, framed in velvet, that is not perched on the top of the head, but encases it, just leaving a small chignon visible at the back. How pretty women look in it! I would recommend also the Peg Woffington hat, which completely frames the face. Every picture needs a frame to throw up its beauty, as even a child in art knows. How else explain why the nun’s head-dress, the hood, the turban, and the mantilla are so becoming to all young women?

Try these coiffures, ladies, and I assure you that you will find them charming. Real distinction consists in simplicity, as you know very well, and you are quite pretty enough to be able to do without those absurd piles of head gear, that do not suit you at all, and that must seriously interfere with your husbands’ peace of mind. Do not wait until your milliners introduce the reform. It is to their interest to persuade you that the more furbelows you put on, the prettier you look. Take the matter into your own hands: put on a little Princess bonnet next Easter, and all the nymphs of the Bois de Boulogne will drive to their milliners, and order one of the same pattern, on their way home from the Avenue des Acacias.

Englishwomen wear their hair very simply dressed, even at balls. I admire that. To my taste, those locks, a little curly and rough on the top of the head, and coiled into a knot at the back of the neck, are much prettier than the complicated monuments that are the production of some fashionable hairdresser’s brain, and need a hundred hair pins to keep them together. These edifices that have taken hours to build, seem to awaken no idea in the mind, unless it be the idea of the length of time it would take to undo them, and the danger of touching them, lest the symmetry should be spoiled. On the contrary, those loosely twisted knots suggest a thousand charming ideas to the mind. Everything about a woman should be suggestive. You fancy you are going to see two pretty round arms uplifted to fasten the swaying tresses. And that is the prettiest movement of a woman, much the prettiest, you will admit. Besides this, the unfastening is but the work of an instant, and “o’er a neck’s rose-misted marble” flows a mantle of gold or ebony. Yes, decidedly the English way of doing the hair suggests many pretty thoughts.

Love feeds on suggestion: I had almost said on illusion. The greatest charm about a woman’s dress lies less in what it displays than in what it only hints at. As an illustration, take the success of a dress that was a great favourite in England two years ago. It was fastened at the neck; but, lower down, it yawned open, as if burst through the pressure of abondance de biens, showing little, but leaving much to be guessed at. It was provoking and exceedingly piquant. Besides—let us say here all we think—this kind of bodice allowed a little cheating, and the dissimulation of a small salt-cellar here and there, which naturally made it very popular in England.

It is all very well for the fair sex to tell us that it is out of pure vanity they delight in dressing prettily. I do not believe a word of it. I should not dare to affirm that they did not take a secret delight in eclipsing or crushing a rival, but I am infatuated enough to believe that it is principally to please us that they study to look lovely. It seems to me then, that we ought to have a voice in the matter, a consultative if not a deliberative voice, and to be allowed to tell them the kind of attire that pleases us most.

The more so, fair ladies, that it is one of our privileges to pay the milliner’s bills.

Just as glaring and showy as are the colours the lower class women array themselves in, just so quiet and simple are those worn in the street by ladies.

The dresses you see in the carriages, in Hyde Park, are noticeable for their sober tints and a studied, almost Puritan, simplicity.

There is something to the credit of Englishmen, which may aptly be added here, and that is, that, with the exception of the old or infirm, very few gentlemen accompany the ladies in the carriages: they are on horseback. You will see no young idlers of the order of St. Dandy and St. Dangler lolling among cushions, taking their solitary drive in Hyde Park to while away an hour or two. It would be going a little too far to say that in England every man works, although it would be very near to the truth; but what is perfectly sure is that they all have some occupation.

All display of toilette is reserved for the evening: for balls, theatres, and dinners.

The auditorium of a London theatre presents a very much more brilliant appearance than that of a Parisian one. It is an exceedingly pretty sight to see all the boxes, stalls, and dress circle full of gaily dressed ladies; in fact, if you except the Opera and two or three such houses as the Lyceum, the Haymarket, and the St. James’s, it is, in my opinion, about the only thing there is interesting for a Frenchman to see in a London theatre, even though he may understand English well. Evening dress is not optional, it is compulsory; unless you are bound for the upper regions of the house, the attendants, before showing you to your place, conduct the ladies who may accompany you, to the cloak-room, where hats and bonnets are left.

Of course, most ladies drive to the theatre in evening dress, and have no hat to remove.

It is needless to say that in England, where routine is not so deep-rooted as in France, ladies are admitted to the stalls. And why should they not be? They are the best seats in the house, and why in most of our Parisian theatres they are still closed to ladies, is something that passes my comprehension.

Long ago: about two hundred years back, the pit was not supplied with seats, and naturally women did not go there. This is why the ground floor, although now provided with excellent accommodation, is still interdicted to ladies. It seems too idiotic, but nevertheless, it is in vain one looks for any other explanation.

Almost three hundred years ago men left off wearing belts. And yet, in spite of that, on the backs of our coats may still be seen the two buttons that served for their support—and it is probable we shall see them there many a year yet.

O Routine! such is thy handiwork.