CHAPTER XVII.

ECONOMY IN RIDING DRESS.

To economise well is a great art, and unfortunately very few persons understand it. The public mind wavers as a rule between two views of the matter--excessive parsimony, or continual hunting after cheap things. When I say “cheap,” I mean low-priced; for brummagem articles, no matter of what description, are always the very reverse of _cheap_. “I have got such a bargain,” says one dear friend to another, displaying some trumpery thing which would have been dear at half the price given for it; and away goes the friend and invests in a similar treasure, only to regret her want of wisdom when too late to retract.

The true secrets of economising are: first never to buy anything that you do not absolutely require; second, to purchase every article of the very best description; and third, to take care of your things when you have got them. These three rules will go far if attended to, but, like the Siamese twins, separate them and they will die. A word, then, about each--taking them in rotation as named.

Buy nothing that you do not want. It is a general weakness with ladies to infringe this rule. They are fond of shopping, and shopmen know it, and pander to the familiar infirmity--not only detaining them twice as long as is necessary at every counter, but showing them an endless variety of articles, by way of tempting them to buy. The artifice succeeds only too often, and the consequences are a lightened purse, and an unnecessarily burdened wardrobe.

To have too large a stock of clothes is in every way a mistake. They become old-fashioned before they are half worn out; they encourage and engender moths; they form a cumbrous baggage if compelled to move; and they are a source of embarrassment and trouble if taken away with one on visits--seeing that in this age a lady rarely enjoys the luxury of a wardrobe in her bedroom, except in her own house. Most of us consider such a commodity a necessity when at home, but when we go visiting it is a luxury absolutely denied us. I do not mean to say that there is not an imposing piece of furniture so styled in the sleeping apartment allotted to us; there almost always is; it looks quite magnificent, generally, with its shining panels and tempting mirrored centre--but, alas, it is a delusion and a snare! We find that the doors are immovable: they are locked; the hostess has it filled with her own fineries, and has either forgotten to remove them, or has said to herself that it would be too great a trouble to do so: the visitor can manage very well without it--has she not got her imperials, and the bed-rail--and the drawers of the toilet-table to keep her brushes and things in, and what more can she reasonably want? To say that this is not the way in good houses is both foolish and untrue; for it is so in the very best. It may be the fault of my lady’s maid, or housekeeper--probably it is, in many instances--but it is my lady’s fault in a great measure also, inasmuch as she has neither seen to the comforts of her guest, nor made inquiries concerning them. However this may be, or with whomsoever the fault may lie, the wardrobe is a sealed book, into which we are not permitted to peer, and so we cast our despairing eyes around us for some substitute, and brighten as we perceive a tempting-looking chest of drawers; but it likewise is a deception, for it is found to contain articles of children’s clothing folded away in the top receptacles, while the lower ones have toilet linen in them, and the big deep one at the bottom contains a bolster doubled in two, like a huge sausage put away to keep. This being the case, we shake a dismal head, and proceed to lay out our neat habit-skirts and other things on the bed-rail, and on the backs of the chairs; and by-and-by, when we return to our room to dress for dinner, we find that a remorseful hostess, or a conscience-stricken maid, has unlocked one of the mighty doors of the mysterious “sealed book,” and has graciously crammed three or four satin gowns on to one of the back pegs, leaving the front ones free to hold whatever we may be pleased to hang upon them. Sometimes even this small boon is not vouchsafed, and we run the tether of our visit with only chair-backs to depend upon for hanging purposes, and with the cheerful consciousness that all the maids in the establishment have tried on and admired themselves in every single article belonging to us for which we have been unable to find room in our trunks. I once caught a smart abigail in an English house pirouetting before the cheval-glass, dressed in my riding-breeches, and grinning delightedly, with a hand on each side of her waist. By way of punishment, I made her divest herself of the trifles in my presence, and by so doing found that she had augmented the evil by making an entirely wrong use of one of my silk vests--while as an end to all bitterness, she had actually fitted on my stockings and boots.

It being then an established fact that a superabundance of clothing is both an encumbrance and an extravagance which leads to waste, I think I have succeeded in proving that the first on my list of theories--namely, to buy nothing that is not absolutely required--is at least worthy of consideration. Of course, there is no rule that has not an exception, and there may be times--although they come but rarely--when there will be a perceptible advantage in purchasing clothing in advance: for example, when one is obliged to go for a lengthened period to some out-of-the-way place where things are absolutely not obtainable. In such, or similar cases, the regulation practice may be broken through, although even then it will be better, if possible, to secure the services of a friend who will purchase and send them out according as they are required.

The second point on which I have given advice--namely, to buy none save the best articles--is one upon which I must resolutely hold by my opinion, despite the fact that my expression of it in a sporting journal in which, some time ago, I quoted a list of probable prices, called down upon me such a vortex of letters--some of inquiry, others upon the extravagance of my ideas--that I fairly sat down under the shower in a state of bewilderment, and felt that the only way in which I could reply to such a multitude, or at all hope to satisfy them, was to select the first opportunity of writing a disquisition on economy--the present venture being the result.

I have, as stated, been repeatedly and anxiously pressed to say what I thought the price of sundry articles of riding-gear ought to be, and as the subject was a difficult one to propound, have thought it best to give the amount usually paid for goods of first-class description, leaving it, of course, to the intelligence of the reader to surmise (even when not plainly stated) that prices vary according to quality, and acknowledging that it is quite possible for a lady to furnish herself with a complete hunting outfit at a very much lower scale of charges than that which I cited in my last. It is just a question of how long she expects her things to wear, and how well she expects them to look when the first gloss (always an arrant deceiver) has worn off them. Low-priced articles never stand the test; they may look fairly well to the eye when first put on, but time and weather place a stamp upon them with which the owner cannot but feel disappointed. Take a few examples. It seems to many a great extravagance to give a seemingly high price for a riding-hat, when at half the shops in town a fairly good-looking one can be bought for half the money. Quite true. But place the two hats side by side together after a hard season’s continual wear and tear, and see whether the Lincoln and Bennet or Madame White will not be bravely holding its own, when the other is only fit for the dustman’s cart. In like manner, you may purchase a riding habit for five guineas,--I have seen them made to order scores of times at that price--but I have never _yet_ seen one of such articles able to hold up its head after immersion in a muddy stream, while very many of them could not even stand a heavy shower of rain without showing spots or “cockles,” or both. Then, again, you can get a Newmarket covert coat for £3--not at all a bad-looking one either--quite a jaunty article, in fact; a neat plaid if you like it, and gorgeous big buttons if your fancy happens to turn that way,--but just think of the seams that are all machine-stitched, ready to act shabbily by you at the most inconvenient moments, and of the uncertain nature of the material, which is dreadfully wont to wear “tender” in highly important places: under the arms, for instance, and where the collar fastens in front; and of the awful moments which you will have to endure, tugging hard at it, or getting somebody else to do so, in order to work it off; and think of the still more painful and embarrassing ordeal that awaits you in endeavouring to draw it over your habit-bodice, to which it seems to cling as provokingly as though birdlime had been scattered over both,--all because it has not any nice, smooth, slippery satin lining to make it slide easily over the garment that it is meant to cover. Even if perchance your persuasions have induced the maker of the wonderful thing to augment its monetary value by the insertion of a satin lining in the bodice, you perceive with horror, after an incredibly short period of time, that the silk facing has completely worn off it, and that long stretches of discoloured cotton threads are intersecting the fabric in every inconvenient direction.

With boots and gloves it is just the same; you can get them very cheap. I have seen capital-looking boots in shop windows ticketed eight shillings per pair, and gloves 1_s._ 6½_d._ (always a ha’penny, when it is not three farthings), and I have no doubt that plenty of people buy them--they must do so, or such things would not be so numerous; but an important query remains behind: namely, how long can these articles be made to last--even such of them as look moderately decent at the first go-off?

There are, however, without doubt, very many ways in which small economies may be justifiably practised, with results by no means discreditable to the appearance of even the most dashing equestrian. If, then, you want to appear at all times fairly well turned out, and yet cannot command sufficient capital from your dress allowance to enable you to extend your custom to first-class houses, you can take a “tip” or two from the following hints:--

Look carefully over the columns of the various leading journals which contain an “exchange and mart,” and you will be almost certain to see some advertisements of riding habits made by high-class makers and only worn a few times--occasionally never worn at all, and only parted with because the owner has been compelled to give up riding, or is going away. If the size of the waist seems to suit you, answer without delay, and if, when sent on approval, you find that the cut and quality are good, close at once with the bargain, and get such alterations effected in the article as may happen to be required. I have known one or two ladies with very moderate dress allowances who secured really excellent riding habits in this way,--but, of course, everything will depend upon the maker; a high-class house rarely or never turns out an indifferent cloth, and the cut is certain to be good.

Again, you may be able to borrow a pair of well-made riding trousers from some intimate lady friend, and if you are smart and can make a couple of pairs for your own use by the pattern lent you, it will be a great saving of expense. Breeches will be more difficult to accomplish successfully: in fact, I regard the cutting of them by amateurs as very nearly impossible, so perhaps they had better not be attempted: but, with proper self-measurements and a good pattern before you, I can see no reason why comfortable riding-trousers should not be creditably turned out. When making these, cut the linings for the different parts the exact size of the various pieces, and take care to tack piece and lining together before running up the whole. If this is not done you will experience great difficulty in adjusting the linings when the garment has been put together--indeed, you will probably fail completely, for it is a most difficult thing to do, and the plan I have named is a very good one, although the seams cannot (when it is adopted) look quite as neat on the inside as if a tailor had had the doing of the job. If you want to avoid the trouble of arranging linings at all, procure some strong soft chamois leather, make your trousers of it, and cover them from a short distance above the knee with cloth similar in colour to that of which your habit is composed. Use silk thread for seam-sewing--strong, and of the best quality--and when putting on the buttons wind the thread round and round the stems after you have stitched them firmly to the garment, so as to form a sort of artificial shank; then fasten off very securely upon the wrong or inner side.

If your resources are extremely limited, do not buy silk hats at all. Low-priced ones are mere delusions, and it will be better for you to invest the amount usually given for second-rate articles--say from 12_s._ to 15_s._--in a good, serviceable felt, or billycock, which will stand a large amount of ordinary knocking about.

By wearing riding trousers instead of breeches you can dispense with Wellingtons, and be content with ordinary boots; anything that you can walk comfortably in will do, but remember I do not believe that any woman has ever yet been able conscientiously to say that she walked “comfortably,” or indeed otherwise than miserably, in narrow-waisted, high-heeled boots, with toes an inch wide (or something less) at the tip. A street or two may be traversed in such articles without actual pain, or any perceptible show of inconvenience, but a walk of five miles will probably necessitate the services of a chiropodist, while half the distance will show a decidedly altered gait.

The third item of advice which I have given you, namely to take good care of your things when you have them, is one to which you will do well to take heed. Negligence concerning the guardianship of one’s wearing apparel generally proceeds from one of two causes: either from a natural carelessness of disposition, which leads to all sorts of shiftless and untidy ways; or to a foolish desire--if among wealthy or showy people--to affect an air of indifference concerning _cost_. I have seen examples of both these dispositions; a girl who just stepped out of her riding-gear, and left it there behind her, habit wet and muddy, hat spotted with rain, veil never folded, boots flung anywhere, whip and gloves in different corners, sometimes in different rooms, or on the hall table, to be certainly missing when next wanted to be used: a sort of girl who kept jam-pots in her press, and matches in her work-box, and who _rooted_ for everything she wanted, precisely as a dog does when burying a bone.

On the whole, however, I am not quite certain whether she is not preferable to one of the vainer sort, who strides over sharp stones, and plunges in and out of muddy pools when there is any distance to be walked, rather than have it supposed that she is picking her way in order to save her boots; who eats bread-and-butter without removing her gloves, for reasons of a similar sort; and who puts on a smile of unconcern when her hostess’s lap-dog makes a meal off her whip-lash, or mistakes the handle of it for a bone.

Few things are more to be avoided than a studied carefulness about matters of costume--when others are by,--the practice, for instance, of tucking up a mantle rather than sitting upon it--of smoothing the back of the skirt before taking a seat--of guarding the hands from contact with any object that may possibly impart a soil to the gloves--and so forth, all of which are signs of lack of breeding, and are, as a rule, peculiar to persons unaccustomed to mix in society,--but the opposite extreme is quite as little to be admired. The best bred are those who appear wholly unconscious of having anything on that is worth fussing about: just as the best _dressed_ are invariably those upon whose costume no onlooker would ever pass a remark.

To have a set place for everything is economy of both time and substance: you will then know precisely where to look and where to find. You should have neat trees made for your boots, and insist upon the regular use of them being observed. Brush your riding-habit carefully yourself, unless you have a maid who can be trusted to do it properly: namely, in a downward direction always, and never from hand to hand. Should it be wet, hang it in a cool, dry place, but not close to a fire--and place a stick across the skirt on the inside, in order to aid the drying process. Do not attempt to brush off mud spots until the cloth is perfectly dry.

Stretch your gloves upon block hands, made the size and shape of your own, and if they have been wet, be all the more careful about doing so. Make a frequent inspection of the stitching of them, and mend with a fine needle and silk any portions that may have given way, or seem likely to do so. Look to the buttons also, in order that you may not be inconvenienced at unexpected times.

If you wear a silk riding-hat, never be induced to allow an iron to touch it, except when wielded by a professional hand. You can renew it yourself by wiping it very lightly with a sponge just dipped in warm water, going carefully round and round, always the one way. When the hat is dry, brush it gently with a very soft brush, and finish with a silk handkerchief.

A black veil that has become discoloured by dust may be restored by dipping it a few times in cold water, shaking the wet from it, and stretching it neatly out upon a rail or line to dry. It will not require any ironing if nicely picked out with the fingers. Another way is to put the veil, when damp, between two soft cloths--old lawn handkerchiefs will do--and pat it smoothly out with the hands, leaving it then to dry without hanging.

Your celluloid collar and cuffs will wash beautifully in your basin, and will require no making-up, beyond a light wiping with the towel on which you dry your hands. The material is a marvellous invention, introduced by our friends across the silver streak, and is invaluable to equestrians in wet weather, as it never becomes limp after rain: a great improvement upon linen in this respect, as in many others also.

To conclude my list of economies: If you cannot afford the price of silk drawers and vests, fine cotton ones in summer, and merino in winter, will make good substitutes; but silk is not an extravagance in the long run--it wears so well and feels so delicious next the skin. Silk underclothing of all kinds is a great luxury, and considering the benefits that arise from the use of it, I question much whether ladies of even very moderate incomes will, at the end of twelve months, find themselves any the poorer for investing in it.

If silk stockings are thought too dear for wearing under or over cotton ones--and certainly they are an expensive item of dress--fine cotton ones will do very well; but there are few ladies who do not possess a supply of silk for dinner and evening wear--and these, when old, or deficient in colour and freshness, will serve the purpose quite as well as new ones.

While on the subject of “colour” it will not be amiss to give a hint or two about the proper method of washing silk and woollen underclothing. Silk stockings, vests, chemises, pocket-handkerchiefs, and so forth, ought to be washed as follows:--Mix six tablespoonfuls of bran with four quarts of water, put it to boil, and stir while boiling. When ready, pour into a tub, place the articles in it, and move them lightly about with a stick until the water is cool enough to bear the hand; then wash rapidly in the usual way, but without using soap. Rinse in three or four waters, hang out to drain in a bright, dry atmosphere, and iron while damp, placing a piece of fine muslin between the iron and the article on which it is used. This receipt will be found to answer admirably also for white flannels or woollens. For coloured ones the water must be in a lukewarm state. Neither silk nor woollen garments should ever be wrung.

On the subject of corsets I have from time to time received a vast number of letters, most of them wailing over my well-known abhorrence of cheap goods. Surely the matter is one of which ladies ought to be able to judge for themselves. I did not know that it was possible to obtain a really good corset, made specially for one’s-self, of best materials, and by a superior artist, for less money than I am accustomed to quote,--nor do I believe that it is. At the same time, corsets (like everything else) will be found ready manufactured in various qualities, and at different rates of charge. I have seen windows full of them in London, and even at expensive Eastbourne and Bournemouth, ticketed 1_s._ 11½_d._! After this, who need complain of prices? The papers teem with advertisements of “ready-made corsets” of all patterns and descriptions, and I have heard many persons say that they have found them answer perfectly well. This being the case, I cannot see why the articles should not be given a trial, or why ladies of limited resources, and with figures easily fitted, should pay two or three guineas for a corset, when “perfect treasures,” or, at all events, something that will suit quite well (and that will not go to pieces all at once), can by all accounts be had for less than an eighth of the sum.

I once went to a famous London oculist, to consult him about the right sort of glasses to be used for extreme short-sightedness, and was quite prepared for his prescribing some rather costly affairs; but, to my surprise, he said, very pleasantly, “Just go to an optician and suit _yourself_. Don’t mind what _he_ says; select something that you can see well through, and that does not in any way distress your sight, or cause your eyes to feel _on the strain_. Years ago,” he added, “I found that I wanted glasses myself, and coming across an old man sitting at the corner of a street with a tray of them before him, I chose a pair _for a shilling_, and I’m wearing them now.”

On this excellent principle I advise corset-buyers to act. Purchase what _suits_ you, and if your means are limited, do not trouble about any particular maker, or price.

To wind up, never be ashamed to exercise a reasonable and honest economy. There are really very few among us who do not require to practice it, especially during these difficult times--and there is not anything to blush for in the fact. It is a very false shame indeed which induces us to launch out into extravagances that we can ill afford, rather than say candidly, “I must content myself with something cheaper.” Believe me, there is more shame in owing an honest tradesman five shillings, than in wearing cheap corsets, cotton stockings, and mended gloves--in place of the better or costlier ones which that same five shillings would have helped to buy.