On evening dress at theatres.
Etiquette is not now nearly so strict as it used to be in the matter of evening dress in the stalls, private boxes, and dress circle of the theatres. I think this is rather to be deplored, but the wave of democracy that has poured over society of late has left its impress in this as in other matters. Though theatre managers put on the tickets special to the best seats “Evening Dress,” I have seen half-a-dozen men in the stalls dressed in a variety of unorthodox fashions, and once, in August, I even saw a man in a boating suit come in, straw hat in hand, and, ushered by an unprotesting attendant, take his seat. In the off-season, when all the fashionable people are out of town, this was not, perhaps, very surprising.
A courageous young man.
But he must have been a courageous young man.
Mourning dress.
Mourning for men seems almost a dead-letter nowadays, except in the first two or three weeks after bereavement. A widower’s mourning is not worn for more than a couple of months, unless the widower should belong to the numerous class who cling conservatively to old customs, and believe that to doff his weeds would imply some disrespect to his late wife.
Disraeli, in his “Endymion,” puts the following words in the mouth of Mr. Vigo, the great tailor:—
“Dress does not make a man.”
“Dress does not make a man, but it often makes a successful one. The most precious stone, you know, must be cut and polished. I have known many an heiress lost by her suitor being ill-dressed. You must dress according to your age, your pursuits, your object in life; you must dress, too, in some cases, according to your set. In youth a little fancy is rather expected, but if political life be your object, it should be avoided—at least after one-and-twenty.
“But it often makes a successful one.”