In those days fashions and manners differed greatly from those of to-day.  Ladies wore the crinoline (successor to the hoop of earlier times), chignons and other absurdities, but had not ventured upon short skirts or cigarettes.  They were much given to blushing, now a lost art; and to swooning, a thing of the past; the “vapours” of the eighteenth century had, happily, vanished for ever; but athletic exercises, such as girls enjoy to-day, were then undreamed of.  Why has the pretty art of blushing gone?  One now never sees a blush to mantle on the cheek of beauty.  Does the blood of feminine youth flow steadier than it did, or has the more unrestrained intercourse of the sexes banished the sweet consciousness that so often brought the crimson to a maiden’s face?  The manners of maidens had more of reserve and formality then.  The off-hand style, the nod of the head, the casual “how d’ye do,” were unknown.  Woman has not now the same desire to appear always graceful; she adopts a manly gait, talks louder, plays hockey, rides horseback astride, and boldly enters hotel smoking rooms and railway smoking compartments without apology.

When walking with a lady, old or young, in those days, the gentleman would offer his arm and she would take it.  The curtsey was still observed but gradually disappearing.  When about nineteen years of age, I remember being introduced to one of the young beauties of the town, who I had long secretly admired.  She made me a profound and graceful curtsey—­feminine homage to my budding manhood.  The first curtsey I remember receiving, except of course in the stately ceremonies of the dance.  For many a day afterwards my cheek glowed with pleasure at the recollection of that sweet obeisance.  She became my sweetheart, temporarily; but a born butterfly, she soon fluttered away, leaving me disconsolate—­for a time!

Women then wrote a sloping hand, delicate penmanship, to distinguish them from men; crossed and re-crossed their letters, and were greatly addicted to postscripts.

The men?  Well, they wore mutton chop whiskers, or, if Nature was bountiful, affected the Dundreary style, which gave a man great distinction, and, if allied to good looks, made him perfectly irresistible.  They wore “Champagne Charley” coats, fancy waistcoats, frilled-fronted shirts, relic of the lace and ruffles of Elizabeth’s days; velvet smoking caps, embroidered slippers, elastic-side boots and chimney pot hats.

At eighteen years of age I had my first frock coat and tall hat.  Some of my companions, happy youths! enjoyed this distinction at sixteen or seventeen.  These adornments were of course for Sunday wear; no weekday clothes were worn on Sundays then.  My frock coat was of West of England broadcloth, shiny and smooth.  Sunday attire was incomplete without light kid gloves, lavender or lemon being the favourite shade for a young man with any pretension to style.

Next in importance to my first frock coat ranked my first portmanteau; it was a present, and supplanted the carpet bag which, up to then, to my profound disgust, I had to use on visits to my relatives.  The portmanteau was the sign of youth and progress; old-fashioned people stuck to the carpet bag.