Indeed, we shall not be at a loss if we seek for examples of the trouser which is manufactured exclusively in the studio of the sculptor. Mr. Brock is certainly a great sinner in this regard (we have only to turn to his statues of the late Mr. Cookson and Collin Campbell), and Mr. Adams-Acton has shown in his statue of the late Professor Powell that he, too, does not always follow the fashion of the street. We think we can safely lay down the proposition once for all that no trousers can possess simultaneously both properties—length and bagginess. We have every confidence in the tailor as well as the greatest admiration for his art, and we do not wish to be considered as speaking lightly or at random when we say that long deliberation and consultation with the highest authorities have shown us that these two qualities are irreconcilable. We must, therefore, in all fairness condemn several pairs of chiselled trousers which seem to us to violate this law, as even the elegant continuations with which, thanks to Mr. Simonds, the late Hon. F. Tollemache stands for ever endowed, the inexpressibles of the late Mr. Palmer, and even Mr. Pinker's genteel specimens upon the legs of the late Professor Fawcett.
THE HON. FREDERICK TOLLEMACHE, BY GEORGE SIMONDS.
From a][Photo.
JOHN POWELL, BY J. ADAMS-ACTON.
From a Photo.
After all we have said, it is to Nottingham that we must attribute the unique distinction of possessing the worst pair of sculptured trousers in the kingdom. They adorn the legs of the late local worthy, Sir Robert Juckes-Clifton; and, as the reader will see from the accompanying photograph, embody not inadequately the talented sculptor's dream. That they embody anything but a dream it is out of our power to believe, as we are reliably informed that it is not in the nature of our most flexible English tweeds to assume such grotesque folds, unless there are goods in the Midlands, for which the lamented Sir Robert Juckes-Clifton expressed a weakness, which surpass ordinary material in this respect. After all, they are not so bad as Gambetta's trousers in the statue opposite the Louvre in Paris, already alluded to and reproduced on page 76. The sculptor's aim was apparently to breech his subject æsthetically, and he has spared no pains to bring about this result. As a matter of truth, M. Alphonse Daudet has borne printed witness to the fact that Gambetta's trousers were invariably too short—not too long—and revealed some inches of white sock. But could a sculptor be expected to take cognizance of this?
All our readers probably are familiar with the magic name of Poole—tailor by appointment to a score of Royalties. Poole is to men's attire what Worth is to women's. It would be strange if the artists of Savile Row did not have a good-natured grievance against their fellow-artists of the adjacent Burlington House.
"I shouldn't be surprised," stated the head of the firm, not without diffidence—for it is one of the traditional principles of Poole since Beau Brummel's time to evince a becoming reticence toward the public aspect of his craft, "if the uninitiated person who contemplates our public statues is forced to conclude that to wear shocking bad trousers is one of the first essentials to political distinction. Why, many of the statues which I have seen in London and the provinces are a standing reproach to us. I dare say, on the other hand, the sculptor who reconstructs our creations is convinced that he is improving upon us, but I think there can be but one mind between the sculptor and ourselves as to how a pair of trousers should hang in real life. And if real life, why not in sculpture?