The second class of critics is made up of economists, who believe that too much of the world’s earnings is spent upon clothes, and that this universal spirit of extravagance retards marriage, and blocks the progress of the race.  It is in an ignoble effort to pacify these last censors that women writers undertake to tell their women readers, in the pages of women’s periodicals, how to dress on sums of incredible insufficiency.  Such misleading guides would be harmless, and even in their way amusing, if nobody believed them; but unhappily somebody always does believe them, and that somebody is too often a married man.  There is no measure to the credulity of the average semi-educated man when confronted by a printed page (print carries such authority in his eyes), and with rows of figures, all showing conclusively that two and two make three, and that with economy and good management they can be reduced to one and a half.  He has never mastered, and apparently never will master, the exact shade of difference between a statement and a fact.

Women are, under most circumstances, even more readily deceived; but, in the matter of dress, they have walked the thorny paths of experience.  They know the cruel cost of everything they wear,—­a cost which in this country is artificially maintained by a high protective tariff,—­and they are not to be cajoled by that delusive word “simplicity,” being too well aware that it is, when synonymous with good taste, the consummate success of artists, and the crowning achievement of wealth.  Some years ago there appeared in one of the English magazines an article entitled, “How to Dress on Thirty Pounds a Year.  As a Lady.  By a Lady.”  Whereupon “Punch” offered the following light-minded amendment:  “How to Dress on Nothing a Year.  As a Kaffir.  By a Kaffir.”  At least a practical proposition.

Mr. Henry James has written some charming paragraphs on the symbolic value of clothes, as illustrated by the costumes worn by the French actresses of the Comedie,—­women to whose unerring taste dress affords an expression of fine dramatic quality.  He describes with enthusiasm the appearance of Madame Nathalie, when playing the part of an elderly provincial bourgeoise in a curtain-lifter called “Le Village.”

“It was the quiet felicity of the old lady’s dress that used to charm me.  She wore a large black silk mantilla of a peculiar cut, which looked as if she had just taken it tenderly out of some old wardrobe where it lay folded in lavender, and a large dark bonnet, adorned with handsome black silk loops and bows.  The extreme suggestiveness, and yet the taste and temperateness of this costume, seemed to me inimitable.  The bonnet alone, with its handsome, decent, virtuous bows, was worth coming to see.”