The pictures of the ladies of that time certainly present us with no very elegant specimens of their fashions. Their gowns or tunics are so immensely long, that the fair dames are obliged to hold them up, to enable them to move; whilst a sweeping train trails after them; and over the head and round the neck is a variety of, or substitute for, the wimple, which is termed a _gorget_. It enclosed the cheeks and chin, and fell upon the bosom, giving the wearer very much the appearance of suffering from sore-throat or toothache.
When this head-dress was not worn, a caul of net-work, called a _crespine_, often replaced it, and for many years it continued to be a favorite coiffure.
The writers of this time speak of tight lacing, and of ladies with small waists.
In the next reign, an apron is first met with, tied behind with a ribbon. The sleeves of the robe, and the petticoat, are trimmed with a border of embroidery; rich bracelets are also frequently seen; but, notwithstanding all the splendor of the costume, the gorget still envelops the neck.
Stern Winter comes with frowns and frosty smiles, The angry clouds in stormy squadrons fly, While winds, in raging tones, to winds reply; Old Boreas reigns, and like a wizard, piles, Where'er he pleases, with his gusty breath, The heaps of snow on mountain, hill, or heath, In strangest shapes, with curious sport and wild; But soon the sun will come with gentle rays, To kiss him while with fiercest storms he plays, And make him mild and quiet as a child. Though now the bleak wind-king so boisterous seems, And drives the tempest madly o'er the plain, He smiles in Spring-time soft as April rain, In Summer sleeps on flowers in zephyr-dreams.
"Hurrah for bubbles! I go for bubbles, my dear," stopping for a moment on his way through the large drawing-rooms, and looking at his wife and the baby very much as a painter might do while in labor with a new picture. "Bubbles are the only things worth living for."
"Bubbles, Peter!--be quiet, baby!--hush, my love, hush! Papa can't take you now."
"Confound the imp! There goes the inkstand!"
"Yes, my dear; and the spectacles, and the lamp, and all your papers. And what, else could you expect, pray? Here he's been trying to make you stop and speak to him, every time you have gone by the table, for the last half hour, and holding out his little arms to you; while you have been walking to and fro as if you were walking for a wager, with your eyes rolled up in your head, muttering to yourself--mutter, mutter, mutter--and taking no more notice of him, poor little fellow, than if he was a rag-baby, or belonged to somebody else!"