Thirdly, for beauty and adornment--and it is with this latter aspect that this work is mainly concerned. That clothes _should_ be beautiful is an axiom which, one would think, might readily be accepted; that clothes _have been_ beautiful is a fact which cannot be denied. (It is only during the present utilitarian age that the æsthetic principle has been lost sight of.) That clothes _might again_ be beautiful, without suffering any loss on the score of utility, is also unquestionable. To attempt to follow the whims and vagaries of that jade, Fashion, through all her endless diversities and constant changes, would indeed be a Herculean task, and might well appal the boldest he (or she, for that matter) who would wield pen or pencil. The will-o'-the-wisp of Fashion is, however, a less capricious person than would appear at first sight. There is some method in her madness. Similar types, similar decorative _motifs_, appear and reappear through the centuries with the regularity of the changing seasons. The veracious chronicler may therefore take some comfort from this fact; it lightens his burden, and makes his task less difficult than it would otherwise be. Moreover, dress, as in architectural form, to the careful student of decorative development, presents really less inherent variety than one would suppose; historical accuracy is the favourite bugbear of pedants, and, while appreciating to the full the great distinctiveness of such periods as the Elizabethan, the Stuart, and the Georgian, there are certain primitive forms, certain leading characteristics, which are common to most periods, and which, like the poor, are always with us. One might hazard the contention that a painter would be perfectly safe in introducing a pot-hat and a pair of trousers at practically any period of the world's history--_not in conjunction, mind_; no, that glorious consummation was reserved for this happy age of ours. The Greeks, however, as is well known, wore trousers. Some form of the trouser was worn by the lower classes at most periods of English history. Ben Jonson makes Peniboy junior walk in his "gowne, waistcoate, and _trouses_," expecting his tailor. Nay, do we not read in the Old Testament--in _some_ Old Testaments, at any rate--that even Adam and Eve made themselves--ahem!--breeches? As for the pot-hat, its origin is lost in the maze of antiquity. It crops up in its various developments at all sorts of odd times and periods. A fearsome variety of it is to be seen upon the head of Jan Arnolfini in Van Eyck's picture in the National Gallery. It appears in Durer's engravings and woodcuts, woolly, hairy structures, occasionally of abnormal height. It is perhaps not generally known that it occurs in the Raphael cartoons ("Paul preaching at Athens"). One would have imagined such a singular appearance as a pot-hat, in such surroundings, to have been evident at first sight. The reason it was not so was on account of its colour (vermilion).