CHATS ON COSTUME

I
A GENERAL SURVEY

That singular clothes-philosopher, Diogenes TeufelsdrÖckh, whose revolutionary theories upon the subject of the "vestural tissue" first burst upon an astonished world some seventy odd years ago, has, with characteristic emphasis, drawn attention, amongst other things, to the fact that man is the only animal who is not provided with some Nature-made protection against the elements—a protection either of fur, feather, hide, or what not. Bounteous Nature, however, always kind, who never withholds a good without affording ample compensation, has endowed man with that fertile brain and cunning hand whereby he may convert hide into leather, wool of sheep into cloth, web of worm into silk, flax and cotton into linen of various kinds, and so restore that balance of endowment without which man would be at the mercy of every wind that blew.

The uses of clothes, or costume—the words may be here taken as synonymous—may be said to be threefold: first, for decency, which was their first and apparently only use, as we may assume that in Eden the sun always shone; secondly, for comfort and protection; thirdly, for beauty and adornment.

First, then, for decency. That is sufficiently clearly established if we may accept the Mosaic account of the world's juvenescence: "And the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons"; "Unto Adam also and to his wife did the Lord God make coats of skins and clothed them."[1] This habit of observance of the decencies of life appears to be common to all nations. No people or tribe, however primitive the civilisation, but makes some sort of provision in this respect. The Veddas of Ceylon make girdles of leaves, which gives them a strangely fantastic appearance. We learn from the accounts of travellers in Central Africa that "clothing, though extremely simple, consisting of a little grass-cloth, ornaments of feathers, fur, shells, glass and metal beads, are worn, and the skin is decorated by stripes of paint or an extensive series of cicatrices." Among the aborigines of the Malay Peninsula (Sakais) "the men wear a strip of bark-cloth twisted round the waist and drawn between the legs. The women sometimes wear small cotton-cloth petticoats (sarongs) purchased from the Malays, and the men occasionally adopt Chinese trousers; but in their native forests, however, none of these luxuries are indulged in."

Secondly, for comfort and protection. The climatic influence on dress is, and must necessarily be, considerable. This is well illustrated by the well-known fable of "The Wind and the Sun." The more boisterously the wind blows, the more closely the man enwraps himself with his cloak; the more fiercely the sun shines, the more the man divests himself of raiment;[2] but between the skins of the Laplander, fashioned by the help of a thorn or a fishbone for a needle, and the sinews of the animal for thread, and the light gossamer clothing of the countries of the East there is a vast range, the extent of which, indeed, is almost boundless. Climate not only determines the amount or degree of warmth or otherwise, but also, as in architecture, influences its character both as to form and colour. Moreover, clothes are an index to the character or temper of an individual or nation. "What meaning lies in Colour! If the Cut betoken intellect and talent, so does the Colour betoken temper and heart."[3]

Thirdly, for beauty and adornment—and it is with this latter aspect that this work is mainly concerned. That clothes should be beautiful is an axiom which, one would think, might readily be accepted; that clothes have been beautiful is a fact which cannot be denied. (It is only during the present utilitarian age that the Æsthetic principle has been lost sight of.) That clothes might again be beautiful, without suffering any loss on the score of utility, is also unquestionable. To attempt to follow the whims and vagaries of that jade, Fashion, through all her endless diversities and constant changes, would indeed be a Herculean task, and might well appal the boldest he (or she, for that matter) who would wield pen or pencil.

The will-o'-the-wisp of Fashion is, however, a less capricious person than would appear at first sight. There is some method in her madness. Similar types, similar decorative motifs, appear and reappear through the centuries with the regularity of the changing seasons. The veracious chronicler may therefore take some comfort from this fact; it lightens his burden, and makes his task less difficult than it would otherwise be. Moreover, dress, as in architectural form, to the careful student of decorative development, presents really less inherent variety than one would suppose; historical accuracy is the favourite bugbear of pedants, and, while appreciating to the full the great distinctiveness of such periods as the Elizabethan, the Stuart, and the Georgian, there are certain primitive forms, certain leading characteristics, which are common to most periods, and which, like the poor, are always with us. One might hazard the contention that a painter would be perfectly safe in introducing a pot-hat and a pair of trousers at practically any period of the world's history—not in conjunction, mind; no, that glorious consummation was reserved for this happy age of ours. The Greeks, however, as is well known, wore trousers. Some form of the trouser was worn by the lower classes at most periods of English history. Ben Jonson makes Peniboy junior walk in his "gowne, waistcoate, and trouses," expecting his tailor. Nay, do we not read in the Old Testament—in some Old Testaments, at any rate—that even Adam and Eve made themselves—ahem!—breeches? As for the pot-hat, its origin is lost in the maze of antiquity. It crops up in its various developments at all sorts of odd times and periods. A fearsome variety of it is to be seen upon the head of Jan Arnolfini in Van Eyck's picture in the National Gallery. It appears in Durer's engravings and woodcuts, woolly, hairy structures, occasionally of abnormal height. It is perhaps not generally known that it occurs in the Raphael cartoons ("Paul preaching at Athens"). One would have imagined such a singular appearance as a pot-hat, in such surroundings, to have been evident at first sight. The reason it was not so was on account of its colour (vermilion). Had it been black, one would have spotted it at once; and this fact, when one comes to consider it, is a little singular, since, if one were to march down Piccadilly some fine afternoon crowned in a vermilion pot-hat, methinks one would not altogether escape notice.

There is, however, still another aspect of clothes which remains to be considered, i.e., their symbolism. It has been written, "Manners maketh man." It might also be written with even a still greater degree of truth, "Clothes maketh man," since clothes contribute so much to man's dignity. Carlyle finds it difficult to imagine a naked Duke of Windlestraw addressing a naked House of Lords, and asks, very pertinently, "Who ever saw any Lord my-lorded in tattered blanket fastened with a wooden skewer?" His King Toom-tabard (empty gown) reigning over Scotland long after the man John Baliol had gone! His quaint conceit of a suit of cast clothes, meekly bearing its honours, without haughty looks or scornful gesture, has been imitated by Thackeray in his amusing illustration of "Ludovicus Rex"—the "silent dignity" of "Rex" as represented by the suit of clothes, the forlorn appearance of Ludovicus, the magnificence of "Ludovicus Rex," all testify to the great importance and value of costume, as contrasted with the relatively trivial character of the wearer.

Who, then, shall dare to belittle the importance of costume? or to affirm that character can rise superior to its environment? Our subject is one of the most significant which can be presented to the reader's consideration. It provides one of the most curious and fascinating studies in the world.

"LUDOVICUS REX."
From "Paris Sketches."

With respect to material, by far the most sumptuous fabric employed for purposes of adornment in past times is undoubtedly cloth of gold. This truly regal fabric has been in use from the earliest periods. "And they shall make the ephod of gold, of blue, and of purple, of scarlet, and fine twined linen, with cunning work. And the curious girdle of the ephod, which is upon it, shall be of the same, according to the work thereof; even of gold, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen."[5]

It is recorded of the wife of the Emperor Honorius, who died about the year 400, upon the re-opening of her grave in 1544, the golden tissues which formed the shroud were melted, and amounted in weight to 36 lbs.

About the body of the Frankish King Childeric, when his grave was discovered in 1653, were found numerous strips of pure gold, pointing to the fact that the body must have been wrapped in a mantle of golden stuff for burial.

The sumptuary laws which were enacted at various periods of English history, regulating and restricting the wearing of this precious fabric to persons of estate, have already been referred to, and serve to show in what high estimation this fabric was held.

It will readily be imagined that cloth of gold was necessarily costly. The Princess Mary (afterwards Queen), thirteen years before she came to the throne, "Payed to Peycocke, of London, for xix yerds iii qrt of clothe of golde at xxxviijs. the yerde. xxxvijli. xs. vjd." and for "a yerde & dr qrt of clothe of silver xls." In later times the use of the pure gold thread was discontinued except for very costly garments, and tissues were made of silver-gilt or copper-gilt thread. The thin paper which we now know by the name of tissue paper was originally made for the purpose of being placed between the pieces of stuff to prevent tarnishing when laid by.

Silk, like the sun, and so many other good things comes to us from the "sacred East." The earliest mention of it is in Aristotle, who refers to the importation into the Western world of raw silk. Silken garments were brought to Rome from a very early period, but on account of their costliness were worn only by a very few. Heliogabalus was the first Emperor who wore silk for clothing. By the revised code of laws issued for the Roman Empire in 533 A.D., a monopoly of silk weaving was given to the Court, looms being set up in the imperial palace and worked by women. The raw material, however, had still to be brought from abroad. The story of the introduction of the silkworm into Constantinople will serve to show how jealously the secret of the rearing of the worm was kept by the peoples of the East. The eggs of the silkworm were brought, hidden in their walking staves, by two Greek monks, who had lived many years amongst the Chinese and learnt the process of rearing the worm, and who carried them to Constantinople and presented them to the Emperor. Very soon afterwards the Western world reared its own silk.

Silk was known under different names at various periods, according to its colour, texture, or design. Samite, Samit, Examitum, is a six-threaded tissue, and consequently costly. The hand which grasped the sword Excalibur when it was thrown into the lake was clothed in white samite—

Ciclatoun was a substance of light texture, and was used both for ecclesiastical purposes and for the more stately dresses of a secular character. Chaucer, in his "Rime of Sire Thopas," says:—

Cendal was a less costly fabric, and was also used largely in ecclesiastical vestments.

Taffeta was a thin transparent textile, and was used, as well as cendal, during the Middle Ages for linings.

Sarcenet also is a light webbed silk, and by degrees supplanted cendal.

Satin was also used in the Middle Ages, and is mentioned by Chaucer in his "Man of Lawe's Tale," but was not brought into general use until later. The beauties of the Court of Charles II., as pictured by Sir Peter Lely, are usually clad in satin.

Velvet, that most sumptuous material, has always been held in high estimation on account of the richness of its texture and fold. It has always been used, since its introduction into the West, for robes of state and for the more sumptuous kind of dress. The place of its origin is not known, but it probably comes from China.

In a letter preserved in the Record Office (circa 1505) to Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, from his steward Killingworth (De la Pole had been indicted of homicide and murder, "for slaying of a mean person in his rage and fury," and had fled to Flanders), conveying excuses from some person un-named, mentioned only as "your friend," for not having communicated with De la Pole earlier, as he had hoped, to send him news from England, the writer continues:—

"For your gown he axked me howe many elles velvet wold serve you. I told hym xiiij Englishe yerdis, and then he saied, 'What lynyng thereunto?' I answerde 'Sarcenet' by cause of the lest coste to helpe it forward. And he saide to me, 'Wel, I shal see what I can doo therin.' Soo, sir, if it please you to write to him in Duche, and thank him, and geve but oon worde therin towching your gown, I doubte not ye shal have hyt."

The patternings of woven brocades, damasks and other textiles afford an interest quite apart from mere utility, or the purpose for which they were intended to serve as an ornamental adjunct to dress, since by their means we are able to trace the great ornamental traditions to their original source in the East.

The history of the art of weaving in China is lost in obscurity, but we may reasonably infer from our knowledge of the character of its people that neither their methods nor the character of the ornamentation have materially changed during a period of as much as two thousand years. Dionysius Periegetes informs us that the Seres "make precious figured garments resembling in colour the flowers of the field, and rivalling in fineness the work of spiders."

It is certain that the Egyptians practised the art of weaving from very early times, although the earliest ornamental fabrics found in Egypt are of the sixth century A.D. In later times, however, their woven fabrics were exceedingly sumptuous. Shakespeare's description of the barge of Cleopatra will be familiar to all—

The Sicilian brocades of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were the finest in the world. The character of their ornamentation betrays their Eastern origin, and we may trace in them the various influences which were brought to bear upon them by their successive conquerors, and which left a lasting mark upon their art. The earliest ornamental influence was that of Byzantium, which followed upon the conquest of the island by Belisarius in 535. The patternings are made up of grotesque animals, birds, griffins, chimeras, &c., intertwined with conventional foliage or ornament of a purely abstract character. After the Saracen conquest, resultant upon the preaching of Muhammad, we find Arabic inscriptions freely introduced as part of the general decorative motive. Gold thread is lavishly used, and, together with an admixture of colour, usually forms the pattern, upon a coloured ground, dark or light, as the case may be.

The tradition spread to the mainland of Italy, and looms were set up in Lucca, Florence, Venice, Genoa, and elsewhere; the character of the ornamentation gradually changing, however, as the Renascence influence began to make itself felt. Even the most cursory study of Italian painting will serve to give an idea of the splendour of the dresses of the Italian Gothic and Renascence periods.

It was Louis XI. who introduced the art of silk weaving into France, and looms were established at Tours in 1480. In 1520 looms were set up in Lyons by Francis I.

In England also the art of weaving flourished, and was employed for ecclesiastical vestments, hangings, furniture, and other purposes, as well as for civil dress. In the wardrobe accounts of Edward II. occurs the item: "To a mercer in London for a green hanging of wool with figures of Kings and Earls upon it, for the King's service in this hall on solemn feasts at London," &c.

For the "mantell of the Garter" of Henry VII. "a pound and a half of gold of Venys" was employed "aboute the making of a lace and boton."

Instances of the splendour of the costume at the different periods of the past might be multiplied indefinitely.

The monk of Malmesbury describes the banner under which Harold fought at Hastings as having been "embroidered in gold with the figure of a man in the act of fighting, studded with precious stones, woven sumptuously."

Chaucer describes the King's daughter in the "Squire of Low Degree" as having—

In the "Romaunt of the Rose" the dress of Mirth is described as follows:—

And now contrast all this with the extreme poverty of the dress of the present day, and turn our thoughts for a moment to those terrible cylindrical enormities the pot-hat and trousers.

Dress? we don't dress—we simply cover our nakedness—as in architecture we are content if we keep out wind and wet. We have forgotten how to dress as we have forgotten how to build, and beauty has forsaken dress as it has forsaken the rest of the decorative arts. Dress is, or should be, one of the decorative arts; the adornment of a "human," assuming that Nature's marvel must be covered, is, to say the very least, as important as the adornment of a brick wall. What is the explanation of the wave of Philistinism which swept not only England but the rest of the world at the beginning of the nineteenth century? Can it be the rise of science, which, bringing in its wake the mechanical fiend, has reduced everything to rule and compass, and thus brought about the death of the Æsthetic sense? No other period of the world's history but some country forged ahead and kept alight the sacred lamp of beauty.

Trousers are apparently eternal; they date from the beginning, and will endure, one fears, to the end of sublunary time. Of late there has been a tendency, especially amongst middle-aged and elderly men, to affect the knickerbocker, although whether the Æsthetic principle is the mainspring of this tendency, coupled with a natural and pardonable desire to exhibit a well-developed calf, or whether, peradventure, the "too old at twenty" cry is at the bottom of it, is a question which provides food for reflection.

What, then, in view of this eternity of the trouser, can be done to bring it abreast of modern taste and thought? because we do move in matters of taste, although almost imperceptibly. Speaking as a designer, it seems only possible to develop the trouser in one of two different directions—that of the peg-top or the bell-bottom. Bell-bottoms may at once be ruled out of the running, since they have become so identified with the coster fraternity that no man of fashion would dream of adopting them. These, then, are the two extremes or opposite poles. There is, however, as the late Mr. Gladstone would have said, a third and middle course—their columnar character might be retained, and even emphasised. The shafts might be fluted, as in the Corinthian Order, or festooned, as in the "Prentice pillar."

In all seriousness, however, the trouser is an absurdity even from the point of view of mere comfort. A man cannot sit down without first hitching himself up at the knee. The knee is the natural place for the garment to be drawn in, as a certain degree of looseness is necessary at that point in order to allow of the free movement of the limb. Nature herself rebels against the trouser, and does her level best to produce variety of fold, which makes for beauty. Philistine man, however, decides otherwise, and that singular invention the trouser-stretcher—true emblem of the modern spirit of incongruity—is called into play, to undo during the night Nature's doings of the previous day.

The late Lord Salisbury, in his speech at the Royal Academy Banquet on April 30, 1887, is reported as saying: "Then consider the costume of the period. Dresses seem to have been selected by the existing English generation with a special desire to flout and gibe at and repudiate all possibility of compliance with any sense of beauty. I am taxing my memory, but I cannot remember any sculptor who has been bold enough to give a life statue of any English notability in the evening dress of the period. I am quite sure that if that man exists he must be strongly tempted to commit suicide the moment his work appears."

The Tailor and Cutter—delightfully fascinating print!—has thrown out many dark hints lately of impending startling changes in men's attire. By the way, who are the Rhadamanthine spirits who sit mysteriously in judgment upon these high matters, issuing their fateful decrees, regulating the delicate and subtle curves of the brim of a pot-hat or the turn of a coat collar? Perhaps the Tailor and Cutter knows, but, upon the principle that knowledge is power, declines to say; anyway, whatever changes the immediate future may have in store for us, we may take comfort from the fact that they must necessarily be in the direction of betterment, since, having recently emerged from that bottomless pit of all that is Æsthetically terrible—the Victorian era: the era of the crinoline, the antimacassar, and of wax flowers under glass—we could not possibly strike a lower depth.