Dear Sir, - Until lately, one of my pet aversions was women in trousers, but now, as if to emphasise and impress one's mind, most unmistakably, with the tricks that fate is wont on us to play, I am wearing them myself.
And the trousers I am wearing are of thick crimson velvet, fleecy lined, underneath which I wear a pair of silk knickers and a warm flannel undershirt. You may laugh at this, but I belief in safety first, and warmth too. I was never a lover of the inclemency of the autumn and winter seasons, and belief it is better to keep the cold out than to let it get you down and be laid up by it.
I used to rail about women in trousers, and think them fast cats and brazen huzzies, as I often heard men call them in the street, or referring to them in company. I certainly agreed with them then, and I don't deny the truth of their implication now. I am just one more, added to their number, that is all. I don't attempt to defend them in any way whatever - nor even myself.
The only thing I have to say in regard to my paradoxical positions is that I have wooden legs, and it struck me I might, with some show of extenuating circumstances, be not unwilling to hide, somewhat, even at the expense of the sinking of a principle. This is all I have to say in defence of the decision I came to when adopting - for the winter season, at any rate - the garment which I abhorred to see on women, as much as I should hate to see skirts on men. I had no wish to trespass upon the domain of garments that should be sacred and privy to men; but I could see no harm in me adopting them for the set purpose of hiding as much of the timber as possible of my wooden extensions. It was thus that I determined to brave the criticisms of the world at large - or of that part of it wherein I am wont to go stumping about in the performance of my vocational and domestic duties.
I chose crimson, because it is a favourite colour with me, and also because the only women I have ever seen who looked possible in trousers wore those of that colour, and one of them, who was in velvet, I could not help admire. So now, for the rest of the winter season, I shall be seen wearing these slacks, as they are pleased to call them, hiding my peg legs to within about an inch of the ground, and I rather like the experiment, even though I don't approve the slacks. They serve their purpose, anyway.
So now, thanking you in anticipation for this insertion of my apology for wearing slacks, and wishing you ever success, I am,
Yours truly,
Wooden-Legged But Light-Hearted
P.S. - However, in spite of all this, and the temporary setting aside of a pet aversion, for a specific purpose, however, paradoxical it may appear at the moment; as soon as I can get fixed up with the tip-top, aristocratic legs I have in view, and which I shall have as soon as circumstances will permit, and on which I shall stand, at least three inches taller than I do now, upon the most elegant of elegant legs and feet, taking the cue from another lady, that appeared in an issue a few weeks ago, and whose lead I am anxious to follow as soon as I can see my way clear to reach out towards the materialisation of my dreams, I shall revert to the garment I have temporarily laid aside. Then it will be away with the slacks, which, having served a good and useful purpose, will be abandoned for the truly feminine garments I absolutely love and adore. The slacks that served me well through a time of necessity, while stumping about on my wooden legs, will meet the fate that is usually meted out to human beings who have passed a certain age and can no longer, with profit, serve the purpose of those for whom they have hitherto toiled, to their profit and satisfaction. Such is the way of the world, with these wooden legs included. Then, upon dainty feet and beautiful legs, I shall proudly storm forth in forgivable pride about this mundane earth, the dead past all behind me, but light-hearted.