CHAPTER XIX

Around, as Princess of her father's land,A like gold bar above her instep rolledAnnounced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;Her hair was starr'd with gems; her veil's fine foldBelow her breast was fastened with a bandOf lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'dAbout the prettiest ankle in the world.

Around, as Princess of her father's land,

A like gold bar above her instep rolled

Announced her rank; twelve rings were on her hand;

Her hair was starr'd with gems; her veil's fine fold

Below her breast was fastened with a band

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told;

Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd

About the prettiest ankle in the world.

In Bokhara the bride wears a rose-coloured veil on her wedding-day; and here, strangely enough, deep blue is the distinctive mourning colour.

The costume of married women in Afghanistan must be granted much admiration: they wear a shirt with wide sleeves embroidered with flowers in coloured silks, coloured trousers, and a small cap embroidered in gold threads, and over this, at the approach of a stranger, they throw a large sheet. Beneath the cap the hair is divided into two plaits on either side and fastened at the back. Chains, nose and ear rings are selected at discretion; and the unmarried women are known by their white trousers and loosely flowing hair.

Returning to Western climes, I note that Isabella,Queen of Richard II. of England, included in her trousseau a gorgeous and unique robe and mantle of red grained velvet, embroidered with metal birds of goldsmith's work perched upon branches of pearls and green precious stones. Obviously economy was no object, and her Majesty had determined to do the thing handsomely.

In the sixteenth century English matrons wore a coif or close bonnet, and the unmarried women braided their hair with knots of ribbon. There is a curious record in the history of Chester in Henry VIII.'s time, which includes an order "to distinguish the head-dress of the married women from unmarried, no unmarried woman to wear white or other coloured caps; and no woman to wear any hat, unless she rides or goes abroad into the country (except sick or aged persons), on pain of 3s. 4d." Such an order is almost as unreasonable as ungrammatical, yet there is comfort to be gleaned from the fact that the tax on disobedience was but 3s. 4d.

In the sixteenth century in Scotland the hair of an unmarried girl was bound by a snood or simple fillet, a lock of hair hanging on each side of the face and tied with a ribbon; but, when married, women covered the hair with a fold of linen fastened under the chin and falling in points on the shoulders.

At the marriage of Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James I., in 1613, when the fashion of the time was the stiff stomacher, farthingale and ruff, "the bride wore a crown set with diamonds, a dress of silver stuff embroidered with silver, pearls and precious stones, the train so long that it was borne by twelve or fifteen fair young ladies, the hair flowing freely down as low as the knee, in the style thatvirgins used to wear their hair at their weddings." After dinner the Princess put on a dress embroidered with gold, and did up her hair.

This description of a Venetian wedding in the eighteenth century was by Lady Miller:—"All the ladies, except the bride, were dressed in their black gowns with large hoops; the gowns were straight-bodied with very long trains, the trains tucked up on one side of the hoop with a prodigious large tassel of diamonds. Their sleeves were covered up to their shoulders with falls of the finest Brussels lace, a drawn tucker of the same round the bosom, adorned with rows of the finest pearls, each the size of a gooseberry, till the rows descended below the top of the stomacher; then two rows of pearls, which came from the back of the neck, were caught up at the left side of the stomacher, and finished in two fine tassels. Their heads were dressed prodigiously high, in a vast number of buckles and two long drop curls in the neck. A great number of diamond pins and strings of pearls adorned their heads, with large sultanas, or feathers, on one side, and magnificent diamond ear-rings. The bride was dressed in cloth of silver made in the same fashion, and decorated in the same manner, but her brow was kept quite bare, and she had a fine diamond necklace and an enormous bouquet."

Lady Miller deserved to have lived in times when the conduct of the fashion paper was amongst the privileges of the high nobility.

OF DANCING DRESSES, EUROPEAN AND ORIENTAL, ANCIENT AND MODERN

Sympathy between Church and Stage is of no novel date. The relationship between the two has been close and intimate since the days when no religious festival was complete without its chorus of dancers, and the officiating priests took part in the tripping until the introduction, in the Middle Ages, of such profanities as the Dance of Death and the Dance of the Angels, common in Italy, Spain, and France, caused the practice to fall into disrepute.

Possibly the present time sees the Terpsichorean art at its lowest ebb. Nevertheless, a promising sign of reviving interest is that modern scientists, following the example of the old Greek philosophers, are emerging as champions of the lightsome measure. Still, it is doubtful whether it will ever again attain the respect it reached in ancient Greece; and it were mere optimism to hope that we may yet witness Members of Parliament dancing to their seats in the House of Commons, our judges pirouetting solemnly towards the bench, and our admirals and generals inculcating a spirit of patriotism by dances devised to inspireheroic sentiments and an exalted idea of military duty.

The ballet, an invention of the priesthood of Egypt, was inaugurated in connection with certain sacred festivals, notably those dedicated to the bull Apis, and it formed an important feature of the initiatory rites into the mysteries of Isis. It was mystic rather than sensuous, and the aim of its composer was to suggest the hidden things of the cult, the course of the heavenly bodies, and the harmony of the universe. The astronomical dance was far from being the only one practised. At Memphis and Thebes the priests danced round the bull Apis; the figures in turn depicting the miraculous birth of the god, the incidents of his childhood, and his union with Isis. Finally, on the occasion of his death, his obsequies were celebrated with dances of appropriate solemnity. But, alas! these capers were not concerned with clothes, for the performers were unhampered by sartorial considerations, and the toilet of a female dancer consisted of a narrow metal girdle about the hips, the deep circular collar peculiar to the race, and a tambourine. Occasionally these items were supplemented by a transparent robe of the finest white muslin, and the arrangement of the hair, or wig, was always elaborate. Framing the face, it rested on either shoulder in a dense mass of plaits, the back hanging in a straight line of thick braids just below the nape of the neck, while a gleaming metal fillet flashed low on the forehead. Male dancers contented themselves with serried skirts, in which they twirled with extended arms, much after the manner of dervishes.

AN EGYPTIAN DANCER.

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Descendants of these ancient ballerinas are tobe found in Egypt to-day in the persons of the Ghawazees. In common with most Oriental dancers, the Ghawazee takes up her position on a brightly coloured carpet. She is dressed in a sleeveless corselet, brilliantly enamelled after the style of an Egyptian sword-sheath, her only other article of attire being a simple muslin chemise vividly spotted and star-bespangled, while on her head a kerchief of cloth of gold is draped in quaint manner. Her bare feet never move, the body alone vibrating to the shrill music of flute and cymbals. The play of the long supple arms is wonderful as they in turn caress and pursue an invisible being who eternally eludes their passionate embrace.

To revert to the days when the Pyramids were the newest thing in architecture, traces of the sacred dance of Apis are found in Biblical history where the prophets of Israel inaugurated the habit of dancing round the golden calf; but unfortunately the costume is omitted from the records, and though I know Miriam led a procession, dancing and playing on the tambourine, and David danced before the Ark, and Jephthah's daughter danced to her doom, their dress is "enwrop in mystery"; and I can but hope it was adequate.

The art of dancing was glorified into popularity in Greece, where it was held in high veneration and freely indulged in by all members of the community, upon whom the exercise was rendered incumbent up to the age of thirty. How salutary a similar rule would be, if enforced in England to-day! There would be no lack of dancing men at balls, the task of the chaperone would belightened, and the burden of anxiety pressing upon the much-harassed hostess reduced to a feather-weight.

The dances of the old Hellenes were divided into three classes—the sacred, the military, and the profane; and dress was endowed with a festive air by the flowers and garlands of leaves worn on the head. A chorus of female dancers, attired in white, was a feature at funerals; while, clad in full armour and equipped as though for the field of battle, men practised the military dances with vigour and enthusiasm.

In ancient Rome the art of dancing, as learned from the Greeks, degenerated into an excuse for licentiousness, and wealthy patricians included female dancers among their slaves. The dress of these dancers was of transparent tissue held by jewelled girdles, and flowers were in their hair and fell in a wreath round their necks.

In India there are two classes of dancers—those consecrated to the service of the pagodas, and those known as Nautch girls, or to give them their Portuguese title, Bayadeses. The former are termed Devadasi, and are to be found in numbers in the sacred city of Benares. The dress of the Nautch girl is brightly coloured, of rich material brilliantly decorated with embroidery and precious stones. It comprises tight embroidered trousers to the ankles, plainly visible through a short skirt of transparent texture held at the waist by a girdle from which hangs a narrow white muslin apron, pleated and bordered with gold. The little chuli, a diminutive jacket, is short-sleeved and cut low at the throat, and leaves the centre of the body bare but for a diaphanous scarf which floats fromthe left shoulder, twines round the figure, and escapes to flutter in a loose end behind. Glistening with oil, the black hair is parted and hangs down the back in a long plait, weighted with a cluster of gold tassels. The tiny skull-cap is gaily embroidered, and the scented petals of flowers quiver amid the dark tresses. Bracelets load the arms and legs, rings scintillate in the ears and on the fingers and toes, chains dangle from the neck, and an enormous ring depends from the left nostril. During centuries the dances of the Devadasi and Nautch girls have altered little, if at all, and it would be amusing to contrast their methods with the polychromatic lightsome modernity of Loie Fuller, the abrupt conclusions of the "high-kicker," and the prim precisions of the pink-shod pirouetter of the pantomime. Will the Lord Chamberlain permit?

Like the Daimios and Samourai, the sacred Geisha is rapidly becoming a memory only in the Japan of to-day. Nevertheless, the custom of keeping dancing girls in the temples still survives in certain provinces. Quaint because of their solemnity, the religious dances are executed by a number of diminutive maidens under thirteen years of age. Ranged on a platform, these odd little vestals are garbed in a manner which adds considerably to the bizarre effect of the scene. Each wears twelve kimonos, one on top of the other, alternately white and red, the borders showing in regular rows at the throat, and over these is a Court mantle sumptuously embroidered in gold and coloured silks, the back shaped to suggest a chasuble. Divided down the centre in front, the hair hangs in a plait behind, decorated withcircles cut out of gold paper drawn together to form two big rings, while at the temples appear clusters of red camellias and wistaria and metal ornaments. The face is whitened and the lips are stained vermilion, and the shaved eyebrows replaced by short, slanting lines of black paint, which lend a touch at once piquant and grotesque. The Geisha of the house is a vastly different person. Her sole mission in life is to amuse and entertain. To this end she dons a gaily-embroidered kimono and decorates her black hair with fans, flowers, and other ornaments. Her prettiest performance is the fan dance, to the light strain of a stringed instrument played by a female musician. Fluttering a fan in her right hand, with her left she liberates a paper butterfly, then, darting hither and thither with marvellous grace and dexterity, she pursues it as it floats towards a flower, skims a petal and alights on the brim of a cup, to escape afresh and describe moth-like circles about the flame of a candle, suddenly disappearing in a quick flash of fire.

In Mohammedan countries dancing is denounced as a sin. Men never indulge in it, either for profit or pastime, while such women as make it their profession are regarded as disreputable members of the community.

Despite the ban placed upon them, Persian dancers are wonderfully skilful, and capable of performing prodigies in their particular line. They dance to the accompaniment of an air chanted by a woman or a boy. The rhythm is slow, the tune languorous, and the action pantomimic, being made up of certain poses and movements which, seconded by an eloquent play of feature, strive to tell a storyof some sort. The most popular and best known is the Dance of the Bee. The dancer pretends to have been stung, and pursues the insect with a thousand graceful turns and bends, divesting herself of her garments as she does so. She first appears upon the scene in the all-enveloping mantle common to her countrywomen out of doors. This removed, she is seen to be wearing a short skirt, pulled well down on the hips, a long-sleeved jacket of white muslin, cut low at the neck and open nearly all the way from the throat, and a little coat of brightly coloured silk, satin, or velvet. Her hair hangs in plaits, surmounted by a tiny embroidered cap perched high on the head. Finally she discards both coat and inner jacket, and reveals a body covered with tattoo marks, huge serpents writhing about the legs, and flowers, birds, and palms standing out prominently on the white flesh. Her bust is supported by round shields joined together in front and attached by a narrow band behind, and in her hands she manipulates a scarf with marvellous grace and dexterity.

The costume of a Turkish dancer allows less freedom of movement, being more cumbersome and elaborate. The skirt reaches to the ankles, where it terminates in a deep hem headed by a fringe, and the little sleeveless jacket is fastened at the throat only, and opens over a chemisette. About the waist a fringed shawl is arranged in such a way as to suggest a circular frill, while a belt, held by a large clasp, is drawn low on the hips. A white veil is thrown over the turban and pinned under the chin with a jewelled brooch, concealing the hair and ears but leaving the face exposed, and on the feet are yellow slippers sewn with seed pearls.

The Sword Dance of Bonnie Scotland has its Oriental prototype in the Dance of the Scimitar. The latter inspires a charming costume. A veil of diaphanous gauze falls cloud-like over the hair and face, and the white muslin chemisette, with its sleeve to the elbow, is drawn in below the waist with a coloured sash, a necklace composed of rows of gilt coins glittering on the bare throat. The ankle-length skirt is of heavier texture, draped with a fringed shawl drawn round the hips, knotted in front, and hanging in a point behind; while a scimitar is balanced on the head, a second being held in the right hand, the left resting lightly on the hip.

Much as the mantilla makes for grace in Spanish dances, I, personally, prefer the dress of the peasants. In Galicia a rural dancer delights the eye in a quaint hat shaped like a fool's cap, with the addition of a three-cornered brim of black velvet turned sharply up in front, one pompon adorning the summit and another appearing midway down at either side. A scarlet sash, with fringed ends, is knotted carelessly on the right hip, and the long-sleeved white shirt is thrown into striking relief by a little sleeveless bolero of scarlet cloth, the back bearing an embroidered design, the front conspicuous for triangular pockets dedicated to castanets, and small revers of black velvet. The tightly-fitting knickerbockers are of tan leather, finished at the knee with black bands, where they are met by gaiters to match, closely buttoned up the outer side. A female dancer is no less picturesque in a short skirt of striped red and white, low black shoes and white cotton stockings; her apron displays a border of contrasting colour, and thechemisette is almost concealed by a short round cape of cloth edged with black velvet, which crosses over and fastens at the left side of the waist. A gaily-patterned kerchief is worn on the hair, the point falling beyond the shoulders behind.

Infinitely more showy is the dancing dress of a professional, a member of a well-known troupe in Seville. The yellow satin skirt, reaching below the knees, is laden with glittering sequin trimming and a shower of lace and chiffon flounces, and powdered with spangles and small imitation coins. The low-necked satin bodice has tight elbow-sleeves, softened with lace frills, and from thedécolletagedangle glittering paillettes, a cluster of flowers being fastened at the left shoulder. The hair is elaborately arranged, and a bunch of flowers peeps out at the right side from under the folds of a mantilla. An important part of the male dancer's dress is a black toreador hat, with a large pompon in front. Merely a glimpse is caught of a white shirt front, and the long-sleeved satin or velvet jacket is gorgeously embroidered at the wrists. Similar embroidery shows down the outside of either leg of the satin knickerbockers, which meet white stockings accompanied by black ballet shoes. A sash with fringed ends is knotted on one hip, and a cloak is thrown with careless care over the shoulders and wound in inimitable fashion round the left arm.

The "Coon" dance so dear to the South American makes no great demands upon the skill and ingenuity of those entrusted with the planning of a suitable costume. A short skirt of red and white awning is the most usual, accompanied by a scarlet sash knotted low on the left hip. The loose whiteblouse vaunts a sailor collar, turned-back cuffs, and a cravat of striped material matching the skirt. Black shoes and stockings are worn, and the large straw hat is of the haymaker order, the crown encircled by a red scarf tied at the left side with the ends falling to the shoulder.

A costume appealing to the male dancer who appreciates comfort is that of gay old Pierrot, with his full white trousers and black pompons, loose coat and ruffle, conical hat above a black silk scarf, whitened face, and vermilion lips. His feminine companion is a common object in the fancy-dress ballrooms on and off the stage.

Practically every country has its characteristic dances, to which are naturally dedicated some adaptation of the national dress. There are fancy dances in plenty which call for no distinctive style of dress, but the fashion fits the footstep as a rule, and no doubt influenced its birth. The stately movements of the minuet and the grace of the gavotte ask for the dignity of powder and brocade; the country dance seems the merrier for the gaily-coloured fluttering ribbons and short bright petticoats; the hornpipe would lose some significance without the co-operation of navy blue and a man-o'-war or a Jack-tar hat; the hunting dance shouts "away" for pink; the Irish jig is shorn of much of its charm without the emerald-green skirt, the scarlet cloak, and the folded kerchief; the Scotch dance demands its tartan; the Spanish dance the mantilla and castanets; and so on through the whole dictionary of dances. The mode suits the measure, and the dance destined to be performed in clogs loses its individuality when tripped in satin slippers; the tarantella couldnot live to tell its tale in sabots; the jig would jump to a conclusion under the stultifying glories of satin and patches; and the sensuous grace of the East would expire in the bondage of Western raiment.

OF THEATRICAL DRESS

The time has long gone by when the dress of his own period would serve the turn of the actor in any character in any play, irrespective of the century in which its story passed. That condition of affairs has no place even in the mental treasure-trove of the oldest playgoer, who saw Edmund Kean, and never lets you forget it.

Although it has not been stated that the most audacious actor ever ventured to playHamletin a tall hat, solecisms no less grave have in the long ago been committed and condoned, even applauded. Imagine Othello addressing the "most potent, grave, and reverend signiors" of sixteenth-century Venice in a stiff-skirted coat, breeches and waistcoat of the English fashion of George II.'s day, with a full-bottomed wig, a three-cornered hat, and a black face! Yet that was how Garrick dressed the part, and, notwithstanding, thrilled his audience to enthusiasm; whilst handsome Spranger Barry won even Colley Cibber's applause when he acted the dusky Moor dressed in a full suit of gold-laced scarlet, a small cocked hat, knee breeches, and silk stockings! Then, picture Macbeth, as Garrick played him, in a 1750 suit of black silk, and silkstockings and shoes, with buckles at his knees and feet, and a tie wig, or in the scarlet and gold-laced uniform of a British general of George III.'s reign! And fancy Lady Macbeth in enormous hooped petticoats and huge flounces, as Mrs. Yates dressed her; yet, when she said, "Give me the daggers," and took them in her hands, as an old print shows her doing, no one in the audience recorded a thought that the action was incongruous with the costume, or the costume with the tragedy. What a contrast to the superb green and gold glories of the costume of Miss Ellen Terry's Lady Macbeth, immortalised by Sargent! But there was no attempt in those days to give the audiences anything better. When Benjamin West asked Garrick why he did not initiate reform in stage-costume, his answer was that the public would not allow it. "They would throw a bottle at my head," added the great actor, and he found it easier to elude the bottle—at least, that particular bottle.

I believe it is to John Kemble we are indebted for the first careful study of dressing a part on its merits, even though he did not allow himself too near an approach to accuracy, lest, as he said, the public should call him in disgust "an antiquary." So he did not hesitate, in playing Macbeth, to wear a great bonnet of the 42nd Highlanders—the Black Watch. But when Sir Walter Scott saw this, he was so shocked at the anachronism that he plucked out the big plume and replaced it with a single broad eagle's feather, the time-honoured symbol of the Highland chieftain.

It was, however, to the antiquarian researches of R. J. Planché, for Charles Kemble's production ofKing Johnat Covent Garden in 1823, that ourstage owes its first important step in the reform of costume. Macready, who urged the reform still further, carried his sense of the importance of costume to such a point during the rehearsals ofHenry V.that he went to bed in his armour, desiring that, not only should the dress become the part, but he should become the dress. I recollect Sir Henry Irving quoting this fact, when telling me that he himself always followed the practice of wearing the clothes for a new part a few days previous to assuming them on the stage.

Sir Henry was, of course, a past master in the art of theatrical costume, and to his genius and taste more than to any other influence we may attribute its present development on the English stage.

Let the old playgoer prate enthusiastically as he will about Charles Kean, and his splendid Shakespearean revivals at the Princess's Theatre, dramatic art has never been more picturesquely, richly, and appropriately clothed than it was at the Lyceum Theatre in the great days of Henry Irving. Even to talk to him of his productions was a liberal education in all arts appertaining to the theatre. That the great actor took infinite personal trouble with every detail, and would, in his own costume, direct the cut of the drapery, the shape of the shirt collar, and the exact position of the sash, or the fold of the turban, all who were privileged to associate with him at work are fully aware. I recall many conversations with him on the subject of stage costume, and invariably he would bring out some point of its psychological bearing. As to variation in the interpretation ofa character under the influence of a different dress,for instance, I remember his saying—"When you have the good fortune to act with an actress like Miss Terry, the artist dominates the woman under any conditions of costume, and the least suggestion is easily grasped and appreciated. In all times, modes and manners must influence each other, and different gestures inevitably accompany different costumes. You would not, for instance, see a lady when wearing Grecian draperies disport herself in the same fashion as one bearing the stiff stomacher and monstrous farthingale of the Elizabethan period."

MISS ELLEN TERRY AS MISTRESS PAGE.

Again, we were discussing the question of colour in relation to certain emotions, moods, and traits of character. "Who would think of playing a murderer in sky-blue satin and silver?" Sir Henry said. And not pausing for my reply: "Of course one expects a woman to go mad in white. Can you picture Hamlet in colours? Surely he demands black clothes, indeed the text says as much,—although the colour for the expression of mourning in Denmark at that period was, I believe, red."

But, after all, the first thing is, or should be, to fit the personality to the character, and then the question of dress is comparatively easy. John Ryder, by the way, used to explain his protracted engagement with Charles Kean as being solely due to what he was wont to call his "archæological" figure.

ISOLDE.

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It has been questioned whether the public cares, or knows, much about the details of stage dress, upon which so much time and thought are bestowed; but then it is recognised that amongst the neglected arts is the art of costume, and pending the establishment of the Royal Academy of Dress,over which, of course, Mr. Percy Anderson should preside, visits to the theatre may offer to the student considerable instruction. In other days the scholar resented any incongruities of stage-costume. The satire of Pope pictures them vividly in the early eighteenth century:

Such is the shout, the long applauding note,At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat!Or when from Court a birthday suit bestowed,Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.Booth enters—Hark! the universal peal!But has he spoken? Not a syllable.What shook the stage, and made the people stare?Cato's long wig, flowered gown, and lacquered chair.

Such is the shout, the long applauding note,

At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat!

Or when from Court a birthday suit bestowed,

Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.

Booth enters—Hark! the universal peal!

But has he spoken? Not a syllable.

What shook the stage, and made the people stare?

Cato's long wig, flowered gown, and lacquered chair.

Imagine an ancient Roman in a periwig and flowered gown after the Queen Anne fashion! No wonder Addison, as he sat in a side box with two or three friends to watch his tragedy on the first night, needed flasks of Burgundy and champagne to support his spirits, for had he not pleaded in a number of theSpectatorfor the poet against the costumier? "The ordinary method of making a hero is to clap a huge plume of feathers on his head, which rises so very high that there is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head than to the sole of his foot.... As these superfluous ornaments make a great man, a princess gradually receives her grandeur from those additional encumbrances which fall into her tail. I mean the broad sweeping train which follows her in all her motions, and forms constant employment for a boy who stands behind her to open and spread to advantage. I do not know how others are affected at this sight, but I must confess my eyes are wholly taken up with the page's part, and, as for the Queen, I am not so attentive to anything she speaks as tothe right adjusting of her train, lest it should chance to trip up her heels, or incommode her as she walks to and fro upon the stage. It is, in my opinion, a very odd spectacle to see a Queen venting her passions in a disordered motion, and a little boy all the while taking care they do not ruffle the tail of her gown. The parts that the two persons act on the stage at the same time are very different. The princess is afraid lest she should incur the displeasure of the King her father, or lose the hero her lover, whilst her attendant is only concerned lest she should entangle her feet in her petticoat.... In short, I would have our conception raised by the dignity of thought and sublimity of expression, rather than by a train of robes or plume of feathers."

But here was no plea for correctness of costume, which might have obviated the distractions complained of. Nowadays we have altered all that, and indeed we had one modern play,Frocks and Frills, frankly devoted to dress as the pivot of its plot. Yet its author, Mr. Grundy, never gives any very special instructions in the matter of costume, his stage directions being very simple, merely stating whether a woman should be handsomely or poorly dressed. He declares, however, that directly he sees the players ready and "made up," he can realise whether or not his work is going to be successful, feeling that if they have realised the personalities, and look like the men and women he has conceived, they will represent the characters convincingly. He audaciously advances the dogma, that every woman is at heart a fashion-plate, and I wish I could set him down for serious conversion by Mrs. Tree, oneamongst the few whose taste in dress on the stage is quite irreproachable, who never makes a mistake in fitting her clothes to her part.

Mrs. Tree vows that if you gave her a dozen yards of white crêpe de chine, she would make a costume in which she could appear as Ophelia, Lady Macbeth, Constance, and Juliet, and would undertake in the disposal of her draperies to satisfy the demands of the most exacting critic. But on the subject of fashion Mrs. Tree is a heretic, refusing to treat it seriously, and indulging in the theory that "everything is people, nothing is gowns." The philosophy of clothes as expounded by Mrs. Tree, if rendered popular, would not bring much grist to the mill of the modiste; but then "In this life nothing comes off—except buttons" is her favourite pessimism.

I have heard a famous dramatist declare that when he wants to mark a situation strongly upon the minds of the audience, he never allows the heroine to make entry in a new frock. He also contended that, in choosing her own gown, the actress should choose it in relation to those to be worn by other players appearing in the same scene, regarding herself, not primarily as an individual but as one in a group. She should also take care that her dress is suited not only to her surroundings but to her "business," so that no drapery impede her movements, no tightness be a bar to graceful gesture.

No less an authority than Mr. Pinero, when discussing the influence that dress may exercise on the art of acting, has declared that our plays are for the most part over-dressed, with extravagance, vulgarity, and inappropriateness obtaining in place of artistic fitness. It is well known that Pinerotakes a personal interest in every detail pertaining to his productions, and such condemnation from him is condemnation indeed. Especially when he caps it by saying that he has found that the new costumes have to some extent frequently undone the results of his undress rehearsals, the actresses no longer representing his creations as they did before the dressmakers sent home their gowns, while the variety of their impersonations is swamped by the uniformity of their fashions.

Even while grumbling, Pinero admits that stage costume has made wonderful progress since the time when Robertson's appropriately-dressed plays doomed the theatrical stock wardrobe, and Alfred Thompson initiated reforms making for artistic harmony; nevertheless, Pinero protests that it is time for the dramatist, in the interests of dramatic art, to say to the costumiers and the purveyors of fashion, "Thus far shall ye go, and no farther."

Sir James Linton took up this cry, while declaring that the bane of the dressmaker was over all feminine stage costume, and would be, until there arose an autocratic manager. Sir James is severe, and would accept no compromise, insisting that dress in historical plays should be absolutely accurate, quite regardless of the becoming, and asserting that an element of incongruity is always present on the stage, introduced by the mere vanity of the mere woman.

In how far the art of costume may affect the art of drama I have my pet theories, which include a predilection in favour of red of all shades for historical dress; an appreciation of the charm of decoration in black and gold; a recognition of the immense value of black in small quantities wiselydisposed, and much sympathy with trimmings of black and white on light dress of modern fashion. Combinations of colour which in ordinary circumstances would appear at least daring, and, at the most, unpleasant, have a knack of being effective when worn on the stage. The deep crimson lining to the scarlet cloak may be quoted as an example of this, together with the alliance of emerald green with turquoise blue, and orange colour with lemon. On fairies and other angels of the ballet the repetition of the same costume is of great value, the multiplied mass enchaining the eye, where smaller groups of diverse details fail to hold it.

GEORGE ALEXANDER AS GUY DOMVILLE.

In moments of passionate emotion it is well that the actor or actress should discard a hat. Irving rarely wore one at all, invariably taking the first opportunity to remove his, bearing it with his special grace under his arm or in his hand, as opportunity permitted.

In the management of classic drapery considerable skill and much practice are demanded, and many an actor of contemporary methods finds himself lost and awkward without the consoling comfort of his trouser pocket for his restless fingers, or the convenient coat-tail to be jerked, in fits of irritation. Undoubtedly, it is wise for the player to accustom himself to unconventional clothes for some days before assuming them on the stage: it is only thus that he can hope to avoid self-consciousness and to escape inelegance of movement and gesture. Women, although more easily adapted to new clothes, and less embarrassed under their influence, because more accustomed to such privileges, yet suffer restraint in different attire, and would yet do well to consider the advisability of rehearsing in their frocks on more than one occasion before they permit these to accompany them in their histrionic duties.

The stage has oftentimes had the privilege of introducing new fashions, and the most apathetic patron of the playhouse may be lured to the auditorium by the report of something new in petticoats, an ideal coiffure, or the latest modish mandate obeyed to the letter in a belt. Miss Violet Vanbrugh may have the credit of bringing to notice the elegant charms of the corselet, and the trim fascinations of the stock collar, worn with the right sort of cravat. To Miss Mary Moore I attribute a revived popularity of the broad black Alsatian bow; she wore this in velvet in her clever impersonation inMrs. Gorringe's Necklace, and all the world of women flocked to see and to copy; while her little short-waisted white muslin frock, with broad ribbons and puffed sleeves,inRosemarymade that heroine an inevitablefigure at fancy-dress balls for months after the production of this dainty little play. Miss Letty Lind, Miss Kate Vaughan, and Miss Jessie Milward—I take my examples at random—may all be counted pioneers. To Kate Vaughan we owe the lace-frilled petticoat, beneath the influence of which she daintily danced her way into public favour. Miss Letty Lind first wore the accordion-pleated dancing skirt, and Miss Jessie Milward popularised the lawn-embroidered collars and cuffs. I forget which Adelphi melodrama she graced with these trifles, but I am safe in asserting that she was the heroine of the drama, and was made happy by wedding bells as the curtain fell.

JULIAN L'ESTRANGE AS HERMES.

It is easy for me to let my pictures in this chapter give me my cues for dilating on specially splendid productions which it has been my privilege to enjoy, for Mr. Anderson has been responsible for the majority of these, and his pencil has illuminated the various centuries with experience, infinite care, and a skill of which I have promised him faithfully not to speak.

An exception, however, wasCoriolanusat the Lyceum, a play lending itself pre-eminently to dignified interpretation, and it is needless to say that Sir Henry Irving saw that it got this. Perhaps the great actor never looked more imposing than in the military robes of dull red and leopard skins, with a cuirass of richly-wrought gold, though, to be sure, he always wore his ecclesiastical garb with the grand air, and as Wolsey, Richelieu, and Becket he embodied the venerable magnificence of established holiness.

BEERBOHM TREE AS MALVOLIO.

Miss Ellen Terry, as Volumnia, also personified dignity, whether in a loose garb of purple silk,with a mantle of yellow and brown falling from a diadem-shaped head-dress set with turquoise, or when, after her successful pleading with her son, she threw aside her garb of woeful black, and was radiant in a draped tunic embroidered in pink and gold, with gold ornaments round her arms and turquoise chains upon her neck.

The picture of Rome under Nero, Mr. Tree personally invested with a purposeful effeminacy, and his tunics and garlands of flowers accentuated the poet in the man. Mrs. Tree showed Agrippina at her best beneath the influence of many-coloured veils, violet and red being the dominant notes; and two gracious pictures rise before my eyes as I write, of Miss Constance Collier as Poppæa in white, with a thick wreath of scarlet poppies around her dusky head, and of Miss Dorothea Baird in peach colour, with lilacs entwined in her fair hair.

LEWIS WALLER AS HENRY V.

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Amongst other notable figures which dwell in my memory is Miss Lily Hanbury as Chorus inHenry V., produced by Lewis Waller, whose mien in armour, bearing a fine cloak lined with Venetian red, breathed the essential spirit of martial force. Miss Hanbury looked wonderful in draperies of brilliant red over white, standing on a pedestal against a black background. And the secret of the admirable conduct of her folds was that the white under-dress of crêpe de chine was wrung when wet, and round this were wound seventeen yards of blood-red crêpe. With this splendid triumph of personality Miss Hanbury may class her appearance as Lady Blessington in Mr. Tree's production,The Last of the Dandies, when she appeared in a pale-blue satin gown, very full round the waist, with a white chiffon double-frilled fichu over hershoulders, and a bonnet bearing a lace veil pendent over the back, and clusters of pink roses resting beneath the brim in front.The Last of the Dandieswas, as it should have been, quite asuccès de costume, and it may be written down under this aspect to the credit of Percy Anderson.

MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS VIOLA.

This reminds me of the illustrations which adorn this chapter. Firstly, of George Alexander inGuy Domville, that subtly clever play by Henry James, which came before its time and died of its premature birth. Sombre black is the dress chosen by this English Protestant gentleman aboutto take holy orders in the latter part of the eighteenth century.

InUlyssesthe costumes were in form and colour essentially primitive, archaic indeed, and no less a compliment has been bestowed on Mr. Anderson's work in this direction than the proposition that the designs should be acquired by the British Museum. The sketch of Julian l'Estrange as Hermes may be taken as typical; gold and black and red expressed it, and there were red wings to the cap and sandals to the feet.

As Malvolio Mr. Tree excelled all his predecessors. Even the old playgoer yielded his admiration to the fantastic charms of this egotist, who displayed just the right touch of absurdity in every gesture, in every inflection of his voice, and in every detail of his clothes, who was so elegant with his elongated stick, and his blade-green and yellow slashed dress with its monster ruff and foppish frills.

Miss Constance Collier as Viola wore a dress of grey embroidered with silver, the cap of scarlet tossing a blue tassel, while her pouch of crimson velvet embroidered with gold had peculiar slits or pockets for weapons, and her sleeves hung wing-like in exact copy of the Albanian costume, a happy idea, since the Illyria of Shakespeare is the Albania of to-day.

Desdemona, as played by Miss Gertrude Elliot in Forbes Robertson's production ofOthelloat the Lyceum Theatre, was a sweet and dainty creature indeed, wearing the palest of colours, white, pale blue and silver, and gold, with a trellis of pearls on her fair head, and ribbons and pearls entwined in her flowing locks.

MISS GERTRUDE ELLIOT AS DESDEMONA.

Véronique, the first of a new series of comic operas with a plot, was remarkable altogether for its exquisite frocks. No prettier harmony could have been imagined than the chrysoprase-green and white of the first act, unless it be the many gradations of pink, cerise, and red which graced the last act in company with a little band of maidens clad in pale-lemon colour. The picture of Véronique shows her with the close lace cap threaded with little green ribbons, and with short soft glacé sacque trimmed with ribbons, and this she wore in the famous swing scene, where the daintiest of little early Victorian brides danced in white muslin and a poke bonnet under the shade of pink and white chestnut trees.

The Othello of my picture is wearing a dress of thick woollen fabric in deep cream tone; his head is bound with a white turban, in which greenly glistens a huge emerald, emeralds being embroidered on the sleeves interspersed with a design of red silk; and there are jewels of all colours encrusted in his sword-belt, and his sash is of red cashmere fringed with red and green.

It is invidious to make comparisons—I have heard this for many years, and known it even longer—yet I would boldly declare that there are but few ladies upon the stage who understand the important fact that, by the dressing of the hair and the decoration of the head, they may make or mar the most gorgeous or most simple garment. Miss Ellen Terry and Mrs. Tree share a talent for historical head-dressing, whilst of the younger generation Miss Dorothea Baird and Miss Lily Brayton most justly deserve the palm of excellence for the way they express their sense of period in the arrangement of their tresses, and will dismiss all hankerings after the merely becoming in the higher interests of the entirely appropriate.

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