ck, on the other below the shoulder;
of semicircular cloaks, of square cloaks, of oblong cloaks, all of
which were worn (I speak of these, and you may cut them out with some
thought); but I wish to do more than that--I wish to give you a gleam
of the spirit in which the cloaks were worn. A cloak will partake of
the very soul and conscience of its owner; become draggle-tailed,
flaunting, effeminate, masterful, pompous, or dignified. Trousers, I
think, of all the garments of men, fail most to show the state of his
soul; they merely proclaim the qualities of his purse. Cloaks give
most the true man, and after that there is much in the cock of a hat
and the conduct of a cane.

In later days one might tell what manner of man had called to find you
away if he chanced to leave his snuff-box behind. This reasoning is
not finicky, but very profound; accept it in the right spirit.

Now, one more picture of the age.

The rich man at home, dressed, as I say, in his father's finery, with
some vague additions of his own, has acquired a sense of luxury. He
prefers to dine alone, in a room with a chimney and a fire in it. He
can see through a window in the wall by his side into the hall, where
his more patriarchal forebears loved to take their meals. The soiled
rushes are being swept away, and fresh herbs and rushes strewn in
their place; on these mattresses will in their turn be placed, on
which his household presently will lay them down to sleep.

THE WOMEN

Every time I write the heading 'The Women' to such chapters as these,
I feel that such threadbare cloak of chivalry as I may pin about my
shoulders is in danger of slipping off.

Should I write 'The Ladies'? But although all ladies are women, not
all women are ladies, and as it is far finer to be a sweet woman than
a great dame, I will adhere to my original heading, 'The Women.'

However, in the remote ages of which I now write, the ladies were
dressed and the women wore clothes, which is a subtle distinction. I
dare not bring my reasoning up to the present day.

As I said in my last chapter, this was an age of medley--of this and
that wardrobe flung open, and old fashions renovated or carried on.
Fashion, that elusive goddess, changes her moods and modes with such a
quiet swiftness that she leaves us breathless and far behind, with a
bundle of silks and velvets in our arms.

How is a fashion born? Who mothers it? Who nurses it to fame, and in
whose arms does it die?