looking on with an innocent envy in their eyes which has no sharpness in it, – or whether, outside those golden gates, they are making their way along in all the quiet absorption of something to do – to learn or to teach, to work for those they love, or to carry help and hope to the needy – they are all as pleasant to behold, no better things or sweeter under the sun of May. Old jokes last long, and gibes are apt to pass into traditions, but the Anglaise pour rire, who still flourishes on the French stage and in French satire, is not to be seen either in Rotten Row or anywhere else where ladies abound. The riding-habit was always English in its dainty severity of line and absence of every unnecessary adjunct; but the morning-dress of young Englishwomen partakes in some degree of the same character, with a national reticence, restraint, and moderation in ornament, which shows that even in the realm of fashion France has not everything her own way. This we dare to say, in defiance even of Mr Oscar Wilde and of all the absurd suggestions which people who have nothing better to do are so fond of making. Barring the protuberance behind, an ever-lasting feminine folly which is beyond all remonstrance, and which doubtless has some exquisite reason, did we but know it, the well-dressed English girl at the present moment wears apparel which is both graceful and natural, and in which there is little to improve.
The sight of these pretty dresses and pretty faces is the chief charm in Rotten Row, where people go to lounge, and chatter to their friends – to see the notabilities go by, great statesmen and small, and people with noble names, and people with ignoble ones, who owe their notoriety, perhaps, to vulgar wealth, perhaps to shame, – but chiefly to see the stream of fair faces, the varieties of pretty costume, which have come fresh – the faces especially, which are most important – from country air and hours, or have kept themselves as fresh and fair as country could make them in the town. How pretty the groups look as we go by in the stream! Under this tree, in its tender green, a little company: a smiling matron or two, a man who halts as he passes to pay his duty, helpless, stick in hand, and moustache on lip, not brilliant in conversation, – and roundabout a little crowd of girls, swept by some eddy, as it were, into this shelter, measuring with their keen bright eyes everything that passes, whether it be a new dress more fantastic than the rest, or a new beauty, or a philosopher, or a Guardsman. There are groups that are fast, and there are groups that are vulgar; but where we pause, the ladies, you may be sure, are neither. If there is malice in their criticisms, it is spelt the French way, and innocent of bitterness; they speak low and clear with the delicate intonation which no school-master can teach, and with a grace which is the fine fleur of education, yet cannot be acquired – which is one of the long results of time, the inheritance of generations generously bred. The soft and gracious manners, which are simplicity itself, yet the outcome of so much unconscious cultivation, are one of the most beautiful things in society. They come to some who have had no training at all, nor any ancestors behind them, by gift of nature, like any other kind of genius; but ordinarily belong to those who by nature have the best right to them, the descendants of well-bred people for generations. This is the peculiar charm of these groups. It runs a little
