Coats assuredly have the power of making cartoons—living, jocular cartoons—of their wearers. It would hardly seem necessary to call attention to the fact that a man of huge dimensions should not wear a short coat, such as shown in sketch No. 91, yet his type is too frequently seen attired in this style. A man so dressed certainly seems the living exemplification of the definition of a jug, namely, "a vessel usually with a swelling belly, narrow mouth, and a handle, for holding liquors." It cannot be reiterated too often that a large, stout man should aim to acquire the distinction and dignity given by long lines. If his body is proportioned so he really has neither length of torso nor of limb he must pay more attention to the cut of his clothes and attain length in whatever artistic way he can. The long coat, as may be seen in sketch No. 92, not only apparently adds length but it conceals too protuberant curves.
Of course, character counts far more than clothes, we will all agree to that, but at first glance it is a man's clothes that impress people. Clothes affect our behavior somewhat. For instance, "When the young European emigrant, after a summer's labor puts on for the first time a new coat, he puts on much more. His good and becoming clothes put him on thinking that he must behave like people who are so dressed; and silently and steadily his behavior mends." Of course, there is an uplifting truth in George Herbert's maxim, "This coat with my discretion will be brave," yet, I am inclined to think that the majority of men who will stop to consider will agree with Emerson, who says, "If a man has not firm nerves and has keen sensibility, it is perhaps a wise economy to go to a good shop and dress himself irreproachably. He can then dismiss all care from his mind, and may easily find that performance an addition of confidence, a fortification that turns the scale in social encounters, and allows him to go gayly into conversations where else he had been dry and embarrassed. I am not ignorant,—I have heard with admiring submission the experience of the lady who declared 'that the sense of being perfectly well dressed gives a feeling of inward tranquillity which religion is powerless to bestow.'"
A popular clothier in New York, understanding this trait of his fellow-men, voices this same sentiment in his advertisement in this succinct way: "Seriously now. Have you ever stopped to think that if you wear good clothing it adds much to that independent, easy feeling you should have when you come in contact with other men?"
I think it was Lord Chesterfield who said: "A man is received according to his appearance, and dismissed according to his merits." There is a bit of truth in this we would all admit, I have no doubt, if we studied the question. Clothes affect our own poise, ease, and attitude toward others and the expression of others toward us, but, after all, we rely upon the man or woman instead of upon the impression we receive from the clothes. The garments, after we have noticed them in a superficial way, are chiefly interesting to us, because they are arch-betrayers of the physical and mental poise of the man. No matter what the cut of the cloth, no matter what cachet of a fashionable tailor a suit may have, or what its richness of material, the attitude "à la decadence" of No. 93 would make the best clothes in Christendom look shabby and unattractive.
This too familiar carriage of the American man makes one wish to have the power to reverse the faces—as Dante did those of the false prophets, so those who stand "à la decadence" might see what ridiculous figures they cut in drawing-room and street. The curved backs and rounded-out shoulders would make fair-looking chests, and the flat chests would represent respectable-looking backs.
A man owes it to the spirit within him not to stand or walk in such an attitude. He should brace up and keep bracing up persistently, unremittently, until he attains a more manly bearing.
The wholly alive fellow pictured in sketch No. 94 would make homespun look elegant. His chest is forward. He does not sag in front at the waist, protruding his abdomen in not only an inartistic, but an unhealthy manner; but he strides masterfully forward with an air of inspiriting "aliveness." The perfect poise of his attitude is not unsuggestive of the Apollo Belvedere—the model for all men—a picture of which every college boy should have to place beside the prettiest girl in his collection of pretty girls, to constantly remind him to carry himself like a young god.