'Addressing myself to my wife and daughter, I told them I perceived that there was a painter now in Paris who coloured much higher than Rigault, though he did not paint near so like; for that I could hardly have guessed them to be the pictures of themselves. To this they both answered at once, that red was not paint; that no colour in the world was fard but white, of which they protested they had none.
'"But how do you like my pompon, papa?" continued my daughter; "is it not a charming one? I think it is prettier than mamma's." "It may be, child, for anything that I know; because I do not know what part of all this frippery thy pompon is." "It is this, papa," replied the girl, putting up her hand to her head, and showing me in the middle of her hair a complication of shreds and rags of velvets, feathers, and ribands, stuck with false stones of a thousand colours, and placed awry.
'"But what hast thou done to thy hair, child, and why is it blue? Is that painted, too, by the same eminent hand that coloured thy cheeks?" "Indeed, papa," answered the girl, "as I told you before, there is no painting in the case; but what gives my hair that bluish cast is the grey powder, which has always that effect on dark-coloured hair, and sets off the complexion wonderfully." "Grey powder, child!" said I, with some surprise; "grey hairs I knew were venerable; but till this moment I never knew they were genteel." "Extremely so, with some complexions," said my wife; "but it does not suit with mine, and I never use it." "You are much in the right, my dear," replied I, "not to play with edge-tools. Leave it to the girl." This, which perhaps was too hastily said, was not kindly taken; my wife was silent all dinner-time, and I vainly hoped ashamed. My daughter, intoxicated with her dress, kept up the conversation with herself, till the long-wished-for moment of the opera came, which separated us, and left me time to reflect upon the extravagances which I had already seen, and upon the still greater which I had but too much reason to dread.'
No. 21. The 'World.'—May 24, 1753.
I am not so partial to the ladies, particularly the unmarried ones, as to imagine them without fault; on the contrary, I am going to accuse them of a very great one, which, if not put a stop to before the warm weather comes in, no mortal can tell to what lengths it may be carried. You have already hinted at this fault in the sex, under the genteel appellation of moulting their dress. If necks, shoulders, &c., have begun to shed their covering in winter, what a general display of nature are we to expect this summer, when the excuse of heat may be alleged in favour of such a display! I called some time ago upon a friend of mine near St. James's, who, upon my asking where his sister was, told me, "At her toilette, undressing for the ridetto." That the expression may be intelligible to every one of your readers, I beg leave to inform them that it is the fashion for a lady to undress herself to go abroad, and to dress only when she stays at home and sees no company.
'It may be urged, perhaps, that the nakedness in fashion is intended only to be emblematical of the innocence of the present generation of young ladies; as we read of our first mother before the fall, that she was naked and not ashamed; but I cannot help thinking that her daughters of these times should convince us that they are entirely free from original sin, or else be ashamed of their nakedness.
'I would ask any pretty miss about town, if she ever went a second time to see the wax-work, or the lions, or even the dogs or the monkeys, with the same delight as at first? Certain it is that the finest show in the world excites but little curiosity in those who have seen it before. "That was a very fine picture," says my lord, "but I had seen it before." "'Twas a sweet song," says my lady, "but I had heard it before." "A very fine poem," says the critic, "but I had read it before." Let every lady, therefore, take care, that while she is displaying in public a bosom whiter than snow, the men do not look as if they were saying, "'Tis very pretty, but we have seen it before."'
No. 23. The 'World.'—June 7, 1753.