Complete. Number 149 of the Guardian.

I HAVE in a former precaution endeavored to show the mechanism of an epic poem, and given the reader prescriptions whereby he may, without the scarce ingredient of a genius, compose the several parts of that great work. I shall now treat of an affair of more general importance, and make dress the subject of the following paper:—

  Dress is grown of universal use in the conduct of life. Civilities and respect are only paid to appearance. It is a varnish that gives a lustre to every action, a passe par tout that introduces us into all polite assemblies, and the only certain method of making most of the youth of our nation conspicuous.

  There was formerly an absurd notion among the men of letters that to establish themselves in the character of wits it was absolutely necessary to show a contempt of dress. This injudicious affectation of theirs flattened all their conversation, took off the force of every expression, and incapacitated a female audience from giving attention to anything they said,—while the man of dress catches their eyes as well as ears, and at every ludicrous turn obtains a laugh of applause by way of compliment.

  I shall lay down as an established maxim, which hath been received in all ages, that no person can dress without a genius.

  A genius is never to be acquired by art, but is the gift of nature; it may be discovered even in infancy. Little master will smile when you shake his plume of feathers before him, and thrust its little knuckles in papa’s full-bottom; miss will toy with her mother’s Mechlin lace, and gaze on the gaudy colors of a fan; she smacks her lips for a kiss at the appearance of a gentleman in embroidery, and is frighted at the indecency of the housemaid’s blue apron: as she grows up, the dress of her baby begins to be her care, and you will see a genteel fancy open itself in the ornaments of the little machine.

  We have a kind of sketch of dress, if I may so call it, among us, which, as the invention was foreign, is called a dishabille: everything is thrown on with a loose and careless air; yet a genius discovers itself even through this negligence of dress,—just as you may see the masterly hand of a painter in three or four swift strokes of the pencil.

  The most fruitful in geniuses is the French nation; we owe most of our jaunty fashions now in vogue to some adept beau among them. Their ladies exert the whole scope of their fancies upon every new petticoat; every headdress undergoes a change; and not a lady of genius will appear in the same shape two days together,—so that we may impute the scarcity of geniuses in our climate to the stagnation of fashions.

  The ladies among us have a superior genius to the men; which have for some years past shot out in several exorbitant inventions for the greater consumption of our manufacture. While the men have contented themselves with the retrenchment of the hat, or the various scallop of the pocket, the ladies have sunk the headdress; inclosed themselves in the circumference of the hoop petticoat; furbelows and flounces have been disposed of at will; the stays have been lowered behind, for the better displaying the beauties of the neck,—not to mention the various rolling of the sleeve, and those other nice circumstances of dress upon which every lady employs her fancy at pleasure.

  The sciences of poetry and dress have so near an alliance to each other that the rules of the one, with very little variation, may serve for the other.

  As in a poem all the several parts of it must have a harmony with the whole, so to keep to the propriety of dress, the coat, waistcoat, and breeches must be of the same piece.

  As Aristotle obliges all dramatic writers to a strict observance of time, place, and action, in order to compose a just work of this kind of poetry, so it is absolutely necessary for a person that applies himself to the study of dress to have a strict regard to these three particulars.

  To begin with the time. What is more absurd than the velvet gown in summer, and what is more agreeable in the winter? The muff and fur are preposterous in June, which are charmingly supplied by the Turkey handkerchief and the fan. Everything must be suitable to the season, and there can be no propriety in dress without a strict regard to time.

  You must have no less respect to place. What gives a lady a more easy air than the wrapping gown in the morning at the tea table? The bath countenances the men of dress in showing themselves at the pump in their Indian nightgowns, without the least indecorum.

  Action is what gives the spirit both to writing and dress. Nothing appears graceful without action; the head, the arms, the legs must all conspire to give a habit a genteel air. What distinguishes the air of the court from that of the country but action? A lady, by the careless toss of her head, will show a set of ribands to advantage; by a pinch of snuff judiciously taken will display the glittering ornament of her little finger; by the new modeling her tucker, at one view present you with a fine turned hand and a rising bosom. In order to be a proficient in action, I cannot sufficiently recommend the science of dancing; this will give the feet an easy gait, and the arms a gracefulness of motion. If a person have not a strict regard to these three above-mentioned rules of antiquity, the richest dress will appear stiff and affected, and the most gay habit fantastical and tawdry.

  As different sorts of poetry require a different style: the elegy, tender and mournful; the ode, gay and sprightly; the epic, sublime, etc., so must the widow confess her grief in the veil; the bride frequently makes her joy and exultation conspicuous in the silver brocade; and the plume and the scarlet dye are requisite to give the soldier a martial air. There is another kind of occasional dress in use among the ladies; I mean the riding habit, which some have not injudiciously styled the hermaphroditical, by reason of its masculine and feminine composition; but I shall rather choose to call it the Pindaric, as its first institution was at a Newmarket horse race, and as it is a mixture of the sublimity of the epic with the easy softness of the ode.

  There sometimes arises a great genius in dress, who cannot content himself with merely copying from others, but will, as he sees occasion, strike out into the long pocket, slashed sleeve, or something particular in the disposition of his lace or the flourish of his embroidery. Such a person, like the masters of other sciences, will show that he hath a manner of his own.

  On the contrary, there are some pretenders to dress who shine out but by halves, whether it be for want of genius or money. A dancing master of the lowest rank seldom fails of the scarlet stocking and the red heel, and shows a particular respect to the leg and foot, to which he owes his subsistence; when at the same time perhaps all the superior ornament of his body is neglected. We may say of this sort of dressers what Horace says of his patchwork poets:—

    Others who lay the stress of beauty in their faces exert all their extravagance in the periwig, which is a kind of index of the mind; the full-bottom formally combed all before denotes the lawyer and the politician; the smart tiewig with the black riband shows a man of fierceness of temper; and he that burdens himself with a superfluity of white hair which flows down the back, and mantles in waving curls over the shoulders, is generally observed to be less curious in the furniture of the inward recesses of the skull, and lays himself open to the application of that censure which Milton applies to the fair sex,—

  A lady of genius will give a genteel air to her whole dress by a well-fancied suit of knots, as a judicious writer gives a spirit to a whole sentence by a single expression. As words grow old, and new ones enrich the language, so there is a constant succession of dress; the fringe succeeds the lace, the stays shorten or extend the waist, the riband undergoes divers variations, the headdress receives frequent rises and falls every year; and in short, the whole woman throughout, as curious observers of dress have remarked, is changed from top to toe, in the period of five years. A poet will now and then, to serve his purpose, coin a word, so will a lady of genius venture at an innovation in the fashion; but as Horace advises that all new-minted words should have a Greek derivation to give them an indisputable authority, so I would counsel all our improvers of fashion always to take the hint from France, which may as properly be called the “fountain of dress,” as Greece was of literature.

  Dress may bear a parallel to poetry with respect to moving the passions. The greatest motive to love, as daily experience shows us, is dress. I have known a lady at sight fly to a red feather, and readily give her hand to a fringed pair of gloves. At another time I have seen the awkward appearance of her rural humble servant move her indignation; she is jealous every time her rival hath a new suit, and in a rage when her woman pins her mantua to disadvantage. Unhappy, unguarded woman! alas! what moving rhetoric has she often found in the seducing full-bottom! Who can tell the resistless eloquence of the embroidered coat, the gold snuffbox, and the amber-headed cane!

  I shall conclude these criticisms with some general remarks upon the milliner, the mantua maker, and the lady’s woman, these being the three chief on which all the circumstances of dress depend.

  The milliner must be thoroughly versed in physiognomy; in the choice of ribands she must have a particular regard to the complexion, and must ever be mindful to cut the headdress to the dimensions of the face. When she meets with a countenance of large diameter, she must draw the dress forward to the face, and let the lace encroach a little upon the cheek, which casts an agreeable shade, and takes off from its masculine figure; the little oval face requires the diminutive commode, just on the tip of the crown of the head: she must have a regard to the several ages of women: the headdress must give the mother a more sedate mien than the virgin; and age must not be made ridiculous with the flaunting airs of youth. There is a beauty that is peculiar to the several stages of life, and as much propriety must be observed in the dress of the old as the young.

  The mantua maker must be an expert anatomist, and must, if judiciously chosen, have a name of French termination; she must know how to hide all the defects in the proportions of the body, and must be able to mold the shape by the stays, so as to preserve the intestines, that while she corrects the body she may not interfere with the pleasures of the palate.

  The lady’s woman must have all the qualities of a critic in poetry; as her dress, like the critic’s learning, is at second-hand, she must, like him, have a ready talent at censure, and her tongue must be deeply versed in detraction; she must be sure to asperse the characters of the ladies of most eminent virtue and beauty, to indulge her lady’s spleen; and as it hath been remarked, that critics are the most fawning sycophants to their patrons, so must our female critic be a thorough proficient in flattery: she must add sprightliness to her lady’s air, by encouraging her vanity; give gracefulness to her step, by cherishing her pride; and make her show a haughty contempt of her admirers, by enumerating her imaginary conquests. As a critic must stock his memory with the names of all the authors of note, she must be no less ready in the recital of all the beaux and pretty fellows in vogue; like the male critic, she asserts that the theory of any science is above the practice, and that it is not necessary to be able to set her own person off to advantage, in order to be a judge of the dress of others; and besides all these qualifications, she must be endued with the gift of secrecy, a talent very rarely to be met with in her profession.

  By what I have said, I believe my reader will be convinced that, notwithstanding the many pretenders, the perfection of dress cannot be attained without a genius; and shall venture boldly to affirm that in all arts and sciences whatever, epic poetry excepted (of which I formerly showed the knack or mechanism), a genius is absolutely necessary.