thirteen, with, to be sure, a huge frill, or, in
our dandy days, a piece of point-lace adorning
the bosom.

The hosier's shop is a new branch of business,
founded on the varieties of men's woollen dress,
and on waistcoats, drawers—once of calico or
chamois leather only—and stockings.  My
hosier tells me that he sells twenty dozen cotton
for one linen shirt.  Hence the universality of
clean shirts, once a luxury confined to the
rich. In looking at the cravats of all colours
and textures that adorn the hosier's shop-
window, we are reminded of the large double
muslin poultice-like cravat, tied in a large bow,
that was in fashion during the Regency, until
Brummel brought starch and misery, to be
succeeded by the whalebone, horsehair, and
leather affair which was the vanity of my
time.  The Byronic taste for suicide, murder,
and seagreen discontent, was in part atoned
for by the move in favour of unthrottled
necks.  Much may be said for and against the
all-round collar, but it is at any rate a testimony
in favour of clean linen, and a superseding
of the abominable strings of the old collar.

It is worthy of note, that as cotton shirts
came in, those abominable impositions,
dickeys, went out of fashion.  Gloves have
increased in variety, cheapness and comfort,
—thread, cotton, worsted, cloth, and alpaca
wool, make gloves for cold or hot weather.
In feet coverings a tremendous step in advance
has been made, both in material and workmanship.
Here again free trade has done us good
service, given us Bourdeaux calf, and Syrian
kid, and taught our workmen, obliged to
compete with France and Germany, how to cut
a good-looking boot, that will fit without
pinching.  The button boot and the boot
with elastic sides are great inventions worthy
of knighthood.  In my dandy days we
carried boot-hooks and a boot-jack wherever
we went, and allowed ourselves ten minutes to
get on our dress boots; the result being a
plentiful crop of corns and bunions, and even
more serious consequences, which are now
becoming less and less common.  Cloth boots,
which preceded kid, were considered in the
country a sign of Sardanapalian effeminacy.
Twenty years ago a young surgeon lost his
election as resident surgeon for a country
infirmary, in spite of first-rate testimonials,
because he wore button boots and a flat
watch in his waistcoat pocket instead of his
breeches fob.  The foot-pavement of round
stones, before flags were introduced, required
a thick clumsy boot; besides, old English
leather defied attempts at elegance and ease.

Within my recollection it was considered
impossible to make boots of patent leather.  Even
blacking is a modern invention: when the
difficulty of patent was conquered by a Frenchman,
patent boots superseded pumps and silk
stockings at balls, but not without a struggle.
A few years ago, fancy silk stockings with
thin shoes, tied in a large bow, were to be
seen plentifully parading the Chain Pier at
Brighton, and my friend Arthurton, who is a
walking Court Circular, professes to have
been present when one of the statesmen of
eighteen hundred and fifty-four appeared at
a ducal ball in velvet breeches with scarlet
lining to his coat, and scarlet bows to his shoes.

Before railroads enriched and conquered
the squires, country assemblies professed to
reject the fashions of London and Paris. So
it happened that I was myself turned back,
deeply mortified, from the door of the
assembly room of Hardborough, on the
ground of my first pair of patent leather
boots and black satin stock, which I had
worn in company with the best men of Paris
a month before at the ball of the celebrated
diplomatiste, the Comtesse de Desdeschado.
But this was not so bad as my adventure
at the York races, when I invented a pair of
kid boots with pump soles, covered with
the French polish which preceded patent
leather.  The day turned out wet, and not
only was the blacking transferred to my
white trowsers, but I lost the sole of one
boot in walking from the grand stand to
the cathedral-close.

All dandy fancies died out with my wife's
second baby.  A thick-soled shooting shoe
and a suit of brown tweed are now my
favourite wear—well suited for overlooking
my farm in all weathers.

I often wonder if Peter will be as great a
fool as his father was about dress; but I really
do not think the modern young men are
so silly as we were.  The great coats of the
present day are sensible garments; you can
get into them and out of them with ease—
they are of Bohemian or Hungarian origin.
Cloaks once had a short reign, but they are
not suited for general use among a commercial
people, whose time is money.  They are
well enough for the stately sleepy southerns,
who sit and smoke, or strut and smoke all
day.  Besides, an Englishman wants pockets.
Cloaks are only of use in a carriage and boating.
All real improvements in dress have been
suggested by our field sports.  The taste
for deer-stalking in the Highlands, aided by
Scott's poems working on the mammas, gave
our children a graceful costume, our men
tweed jackets and easy trowsers and double-
toed shoes.  Who could stalk deer in tights?
Perhaps we owe as much for that admirable
garment, the shepherd's plaid trowser, to the
early persistency of Lord Brougham, as
for the diffusion of useful knowledge.  We
have to thank the French for boots, hats,
gloves, and the flat watches which replaced
the warming-pans which so often caused the
death of John Bull, pressing at the wrong
moment on his capacious corporation.

The old beaver hat, now only to be found
on bishops, deans, and prebends, is an expensive
fluffy, ill-looking affair, which grows
brown just as it begins to grow smooth.

A silk hat was once the sign of a
strolling actor or a Sunday dandy: now,