It was the association of the scaffold with an ignoble victim which banished black satin from the London world.  Because a foul-hearted murderess[2] elected to be hanged in this material, Englishwomen refused for years to wear it, and many bales of black satin languished on the drapers’ shelves,—­a memorable instance of the significance which attaches itself to dress.  The caprices of fashion do more than illustrate a woman’s capacity or incapacity for selection.  They mirror her inward refinements, and symbolize those feminine virtues and vanities which are so closely akin as to be occasionally undistinguishable.

[Footnote 2:  Mrs. Manning.]

   “A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn,”

mocked Pope; and woman smiles at the satire, knowing more about the matter than Pope could ever have known, and seeing a little sparkle of truth glimmering beneath the gibe.  Fashion fluctuates from one charming absurdity to another, and each in turn is welcomed and dismissed; through each in turn woman endeavours to reveal her own elusive personality.  Poets no longer praise With Herrick the brave vibrations of her petticoats.  Ambassadors no longer describe her caps and ribbons in their official documents.  Novelists no longer devote twenty pages, as did the admirable Richardson, to the wedding finery of their heroines.  Men have ceased to be vitally interested in dress, but none the less are they sensitive to its influence and enslaved by its results; while women, preserving through the centuries the great traditions of their sex, still rate at its utmost value the prize for which Eve sold her freehold in the Garden of Paradise.

“The Greatest of These is Charity”

Mrs. James Gordon Harrington Balderston to Mrs. Lapham Shepherd

MY DEAR MRS. SHEPHERD,

Will you pardon me for this base encroachment on your time?  Busy women are the only ones who ever have any time, so the rest of the world is forced to steal from them.  And then all that you organize is so successful that every one turns naturally to you for advice and assistance, as I am turning now.  A really charming woman, a Miss Alexandrina Ramsay, who has lived for years in Italy, is anxious to give a series of lectures on Dante.  I am sure they will be interesting, for she can put so much local colour into them, and I understand she is a fluent Italian scholar.  Her uncle was the English Consul in Florence or Naples, I don’t remember which, so she has had unusual opportunities for study; and her grandfather was Dr. Alexander Ramsay, who wrote a history of the Hebrides.  Unfortunately her voice is not very strong, so she would be heard to the best advantage in a drawing-room.  I am wondering whether you would consent to lend yours, which is so beautiful, or whether you could put Miss Ramsay in touch with the Century Club, or the Spalding School.  You will find her attractive, I am sure.  The Penhursts knew her well in Munich, and have given her a letter to me.