Recently some actresses whose acknowledged ability as artists should, I think, have lifted them above such display, allowed their very charming pictures to appear in a public print, with these headings, “Miss B. in her $500 dinner dress”; “Miss R. in her $1000 cloak”; “Miss J. in her $200 tea gown,” and then later there appeared elsewhere, “Miss M.’s $100 parasol.”

Now had these pictures been given to illustrate the surpassing grace or beauty or novelty of the gowns, the act might have appeared a gracious one, a sort of friendly “tip” on the newest things out; but those flaunting price tags lowered it all.  In this period of prosperity a spirit of mad extravagance is abroad in the land.  Luxuries have become necessities, fine feeling is blunted, consideration for others is forgotten.  Those who published the figures and prices of their clothes were good women, as well as brilliant artists, who would be deeply pained if any act of theirs should fill some sister’s heart with bitter envy and fatal emulation, being driven on to competition by the mistaken belief that the fine dresses had made the success of their owners.  Oh, for a little moderation, a little consideration for the under girl, in the struggle for clothes!

In old times of costume plays the manager furnished most of the wardrobe for the men (oh, lucky men!), who provided but their own tights and shoes; and judging from the extreme beauty and richness of the costumes of the New York plays of to-day, and the fact that a lady of exquisite taste designs wholesale, as one might say, all the dresses for production after production, it would seem that the management must share the heavy expenses of such costuming, or else salaries are very much higher than they were a few years ago.

In France the stage, no doubt, partly fills the place of the departed court in presenting new fashions to the public eye, doing it with the graceful aplomb that has carried many a doubtful innovation on to sure success.  Those beautiful and trained artists take pleasure in first presenting the style other women are to follow, and yet they share the honour (?) with another class, whose most audacious follies in dress, while studied from the corner of a downcast eye, are nevertheless often slavishly followed.

How many of the thousands of women, who years ago wore the large, flaring back, felt hat, knew they were following the whim of a woman known to the half-world as Cora Pearl?  Not pretty, but of a very beautiful figure, and English by birth, she was, one might say, of course, a good horse-woman.  She banqueted late one night—­so late that dawn was greying the windows and the sodden faces of her guests when they began to take leave.  She had indulged in too much wine for comfort; her head was hot.  She was seized with one of the wild whims of her lawless class—­she would mount then and there and ride in the Bois.  Remonstrances chilled her whim to iron will.  Horses were sent for, her maid aroused.  She flung on her habit, and held her hand out for her chapeau.  There was none.