Sir John Vanbrugh

• Posted by mgr on September 11th, 2008 filed in HISTORISCHES, Zeitdokumente
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Women have been charged with having a natural inclination for coxcombs. The charge is idle, and itself a coxcombry. Let the solemn fops that make it, see if they can succeed. The truth is, that where a woman likes a coxcomb, she does not like him on that account, but because he mingles with his folly those lively and more agreeable qualities, which nature has made to be liked by every body. She likes the cheerfulness of his blood, the flow of his conversation, the spirit of his mien and behaviour, — evidences of a nature capable of entertaining and of protecting her. Let a man have these, and be no coxcomb, and she will prefer him to one that is. If she prefers a coxcomb to a formalist, or to one whose egotism is so great, as to drown and make desolate his commonest behaviour, in the despair of acting up to his excessive notion of himself, she is wise, and has only chosen the happier fop.

We will conclude this paper with a copy of verses by Sir John Vanbrugh, in which the reader may take the portrait of the officer, either for the airy coxcomb, properly so called, or for a portrait of Sir John himself, who was a captain with a feather in his hat. In either case, it will give a relish to the perusal, if we suppose one of the graver fops just mentioned looking on.

A band, a bob-wig, and a feather
Attack’d a lady’s heart together.
The Band, in a most learned plea,
Made up of deep philosopby,
Told her, if she would please to wed
A reverend beard, and take, instead
Of vigorous youth,
Old solemn truth,
With books and morals into bed,
How happy she would be.
The Bob, he talk’d of management;
What wondrous blessings Heaven sent
On care, and pains, and industry,
And truly he must be so free
To own he thought your airy beaux,
With powder’d wigs and dancing shoes,
Were good for nothing (mend his soul!)
But prate, and talk, and play the fool.
He said, ’twas wealth gave joy and mirth,
And that to be the dearest wife
Of one, who labour’d all his life
To make a mine of gold his own,
And not spend sixpence when he’d done,
Was heaven upon earth.

When these two blades had done, d’ye see,
The Feather (as it might be me)
Steps out, Sir, from behind the screen
With such an air and such a mien, —
Look’ye, old gentleman, — in short,
He quickly spoil’d the statesman’s sport.
It proved such sunshine weather,
That, you must know, at the first beck
The lady leap’d about his neck,
And off they went together.

Vanbrugh was a good fellow, and besides his feather, had ” books,” and ” morals” too for that matter. “Garth, Vanbrugh, and Congreve,” said Pope, (and Tonson, the bookseller, who was sitting by, and knew them all well, agreed with him) “were the three most honest-hearted, real good men, of the poetical members of the Kit-Kat Club.” A feather may carry it against formality, as it ought to do; but a feather on a head full of wit and generosity will beat all other feathers, let the sullen say what they will. Nor, we will venture to affirm, whatever the sullen or the superficial may think to the contrary, was there ever a sound and generous head, feathered or not, that had not its counterpart in the other sex, ready to believe in its honest eyes, and take its pains and its pleasures into her bosom, if it had but the luck to meet with her.

Quoted from: “Specimens of a Dictionary of Love and Beauty.” In: The New Monthly Magazine and Literary Journal. 1826, Part II.

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