had lost its tail counsels its fellow foxes to rid themselves of so despicable an appendage.  “Before the Revolution,” writes M. Provost, in his “Lettres a Francois,” “the clothes worn by men of quality were more costly than those worn by women.  To-day all men dress with such uniformity that a Huron, transported to Paris or to London, could not distinguish master from valet.  This will assuredly be the fate of feminine toilets in a future more or less near.  The time must come when the varying costumes now seen at balls, at the races, at the theatre, will all be swept away; and in their place women will wear, as men do, a species of uniform.  There will be a ‘woman’s suit,’ costing sixty francs at Batignolles, and five hundred francs in the rue de la Paix; and, this reform once accomplished, it will never be possible to return to old conditions.  Reason will have triumphed.”

Perhaps!  But reason has been routed so often from the field that one no longer feels confident of her success.  M. Baudrillart had a world of reason on his side when, before the Chamber of Deputies, he urged reform in dress, and the legal suppression of jewels and costly fabrics.  M. de Lavaleye, the Belgian statist, was fortified by reason when he proposed his grey serge uniform for women of all classes.  If we turn back a page or two of history, and look at the failure of the sumptuary laws in England, we find the wives of London tradesmen, who were not permitted to wear velvet in public, lining their grogram gowns with this costly fabric, for the mere pleasure of possession, for the meaningless—­and most unreasonable—­joy of expenditure.  And when Queen Elizabeth, who considered extravagance in dress to be a royal prerogative, attempted to coerce the ladies of her court into simplicity, the Countess of Shrewsbury comments with ill-concealed irony on the result of such reasonable endeavours.  “How often hath her majestie, with the grave advice of her honourable Councell, sette down the limits of apparell of every degree; and how soon again hath the pride of our harts overflown the chanell.”

There are two classes of critics who still waste their vital forces in a futile attempt to reform feminine dress.  The first class cherish artistic sensibilities which are grievously wounded by the caprices of fashion.  They anathematize a civilization which tolerates ear-rings, or feathered hats, or artificial flowers.  They appear to suffer vicarious torments from high-heeled shoes, spotted veils, and stays.  They have occasional doubts as to the moral influence of ball-dresses.  An unusually sanguine writer of this order has assured us, in the pages of the “Contemporary Review,” that when women once assume their civic responsibilities, they will dress as austerely as men.  The first fruits of the suffrage will be seen in sober and virtue-compelling gowns at the opera.