THERE is an object in nature to which scarcely any human being ever extended, or ever dreamt of extending, the smallest portion of sympathy or compassion; and yet there are a few that have, in reality, a stronger claim on the charitable feeling of the humane. This object is the poor dandy – the poor fellow who would be a buck if he could, but whose poverty will not allow him to do more than aim at the character by a series of abortive efforts. Instead of feeling for this luckless wight – the victim of a natural and harmless ambition – the world generally views him with contempt or aversion; it laughs at his attempts at smartness in dress, and cruelly sneers at the defalcations of his outer man.

Now, we look upon him with unfeigned compassion; it goes to our hearts to see the poor fellow’s locks so carefully brushed and oiled, and his hat so shabby. We could give him a new one, if we could; positively we would, for we have a lively sense of the pain it must give him to be obliged to sport such a castor. We think, too, we see the melancholy, the forlorn, the hopeless look with which he passes the brush around its bare circumference – bare and hard as a board; and hear the deep-drawn sigh with which he places it on his head.

To us the attempts of the poor dandy to cut a dashing figure have something exceedingly piteous about them – something positively touching; they have always afffected us in this way. We think of the agony the poor fellow must suffer in being compelled to make his appearance in a threadbare coat; of the dreadful torture it must be to him, when he detects cold inquisitive eyes singling out, and dwelling with relentless pertinacity, on the external deficiencies which he had hoped might have passed unobserved; these inquisitorial glances perhaps accompanied by the sneer of contempt, or the broad laugh of heartless exultation. How the poor fellow’s cheek must redden! – how his feelings must be tortured and lacerated! – and this not only daily, perhaps, but ten times a day. We think, too, of the distress of mind which the struggle to maintain appearances must occasion him; of the painful ingenuity which he must exercise to keep up these appearances; of the torturing thought, the anxiety, the hopes, and the fears, which must be his, when endeavouring to compass a new garment; of his eager and heart-sickening longings for a new outfit.

When we think of all this, how can we do otherwise than feel for the poor dandy? But he brings it all on himself by indulging in pretensions beyond his means. True, but, Heaven help us!, is there to be no compassion for sufferings brought on by our own follies, faults, if you will? We would not own such a stern, cold morality, to be made king of the Cannibal Islands.

There being but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous, our poor dandy does, indeed, sometimes , there is no denying it, cut rather an absurd figure; and there are occasions on which to contemplate him with gravity certainly does exceed all “powers of face,” as when he insists on sporting the character of the “swell,” or “bang-up,” in defiance of the most monstrous incongruities and most barefaced contradictions in the clothing department.

Being, too, as regards dress, if not literally a thing of “shreds and patches,” at least a compound of frailties and inconsistencies, he is terribly exposed to untoward accidents. The least thing deranges his nice and careful adjustments, severs the very tender connection by which the various component parts of his outer man are held together, and exposes the nakedness of the land. A sudden gust of wind, for instance, will sometimes make awkward disclosures, and he himself is extremely liable to commit no less awkward inadvertencies, such as leaving the ragged ends of a ragged white pocket-handkerchief (his only one) protruding from his coat-pocket; or overlooking a hole, of the size of half-a-crown, in the heel of his stocking.

Our poor dandy, too, sometimes assumes airs that contrast rather oddly with the palpable signs of the “hard up” condition which his outer man will still exhibit, notwithstanding all his efforts to conceal them. Matter failing him, he must try to make it out by manner. We have ever felt disposed to overlook these little flights of our poor friend; of course, not extending this feeling to cases of insolence; our whole paper, indeed, being meant to bear reference to the poor dandy of amiable and really gentlemanly dispositions, by no means to the empty, swaggering puppy, the would-be blood, we sometimes meet with. In his case there is nothing to excite feelings of sympathy, but a great deal to excite the reverse.

The poor dandy has a spruce exterior, and wears the look of a gay gallant; but, alas! he has a heavy heart, there is little buoyancy there. The consciousness of the many deficiencies in his equipment, of the almost utter hopelessness of having these deficiencies supplied, is constantly pressing on his spirits, constantly present to his mind, giving a melancholy, care-worn expression to his countenance, that will not be concealed by the lively air and free-and-easy sort of manner which he is so prone to affect.

Women, let the reader observe this, and he will find it to be true, women invariably sympathise with and feel for our unfortunate friend, and their conduct is in striking contrast with the men. You will rarely find the dear creatures laughing at him, or, if forced into a smile by the remarks of their male friends, it is but for an instant. Their fair faces quickly assume a look of grave compassion, and as certainly will this look be accompanied by the sympathising exclamations of “Poor fellow!”, “Too bad to laugh at him!” Bless their tender hearts; they can feel for the sorrows of the poor dandy!

Quoted from: Alexander Campbell: Sketches of life and character. Edinburgh: Edinburgh Printing and Publishing Company, 1842: 177-181.