Portrait of a LEARNED COXCOMB; and the folly of boasting an ILLUSTRIOUS DESCENT where an answerable fortune is wanting.

ТHere is no species of affectation that has been more exposed and ridiculed than fopperies in dress, speech, and behaviour: Plays, satires, essays, abound with instances of characters serv’d up for the publick entertainment, for being distinguish’d only by absurdities of that class. But among all the different kinds of coxcombs that are the growth of our fertile soil, and which have been successively made the load of wit and humour, to the best of my remembrance, the learned coxcomb has hitherto escap’d. I don’t mean the dry, formal, arrogant, prefuming, overbearing pedant: he has had justice done him already very handsomely and effectually by several authors; and, out of his own element, the university, is seldom or ever to be met with: not that it was ever known, that a reformation was wrought on a creature so warp’d by prejudice, ill-digested learning and self-conceit; but rather the strain is almost worn out, and the coxcomb reigns in his stead.

The coxcomb, I mean the learned one, is a thing that is as vain of the little knowledge he has, as a fop of a well-fancy’d or new-fashion’d suit of cloaths; and wears it, like him, not for use, but ostentation. All that he reads, or hears, or thinks, he centres in one point, that of qualifying himself to lead the company, and ingross three parts in four of the conversation. Hence it is, that, let him be where he will, he begins the dialogue, changes the subject to what he pleases, and as often as he pleases; elevates his voice the loudest, decides with the most sufficiency, is in pain if all he says is not applauded, and raves like a lunatick when contradicted. In booksellers shops he determines the fate of a book as soon as he has read the title-page, ranks the precedency of authors, proportions the merit of every living genius from Pope down to *****, points out the strength and weakness of each, and modestly insinuates there is a certain intimate of his, that, if he could be prevailed upon to write, would infinitely surpass them all.

In coffee-houses he gives the law, and admits of no appeal: Politicks, news, scandal, are all his province alike; and so liberal is he of his knowledge, that scarce a man enters, or goes out, but he has the goodness to oblige with some valuable hint, or to correct in some popular error. As no one, if you will believe him, has so good, or so early intelligence of what’s doing in the great world as himself; so no man communicates it more freely: What he was instructed with, as a secret of the utmost importance, even on his own evidence, he divulges to all that will give him but the hearing. If any man, of less assurance than himself, should presume to controvert the minuted particular, he immediately quotes the most illustrious authorities by name, as his bosom friends, and confounds those with his impudence that he could not convince with his arguments.

At the Opera or Play-house, one would think no body had a right to acquit or condemn but he: Before the curtain draws up, he gathers a little circle about him, to hear his skill in criticism, his long acquaintance with the stage, and a short history of the numberless pieces, that, like the ghosts in the What-d’ye call it, owe their deaths to him; talks of Handel as his right hand man, calls Pope by his Christian name, and speaks of Shakespear as a good, pretty writer, considering the times he lived in. After the performance is begun, he draws the eyes of the whole circle upon him, by his obstreperous outcries and self-sufficient behaviour: If the actors displease him, he has no mercy on the poet; if the poet, he is as inexorable to the actors; and if the audience don’t take their cues wholly and solely from him, he damns them all.

To court he never comes, complaining merit is there jostled aside by worthless titles, and learning eclips’d by well-bred impertinence; and, not content with absenting himself, rails at all that do not the fame. According to him, every man is either knave or fool, or both, that is seen there; and every woman, no better than she should be. From generals, he descends to particulars; arraigns this Lady, that Lord, this character, that person: pardonable in no one particular, but that he attacks all sexes, degrees and parties, alike; and that what would be malice in another, is in him but the vanity of being thought a wit.

In private families he behaves with the air of a censor, rather than a visitor; plays the critick on the furniture, the disposition of the pictures, the fashion of the plate, the equipage of the tea-table, and even the bill of fare. Neither does he stop here; but gives the Lady his advice in the colour of her cloaths, the setting of her jewels, and the lining of her chair; then turns him about to the Gentleman, with whom he makes as free, in the choice and arrangement of his books, the merits of his servants, and the education of his children. Nay, if a family-hint happens to be dropt, he seriously presses both to lay the whole affair before him, offers his advice and his services, and takes upon himself to answer for the event: Or, should they be on their guard against his officious impertinence, and let nothing escape of that nature, he sets his head to work to recollect every thing he has heard of their affairs; and, if any circumstance arises to his purpose, blurts it out, and blesses himself that they have an opportunity of putting his abilities to a trial.

This is the miniature of an accomplish’d coxcomb; to draw him as large as the life, would be to write his story; and, I think, no one is so worthy of that talk as himself. Some people, perhaps, may think such a character the creature of imagination only; but many more, I am persuaded, will trace out his resemblance among their acquaintance. This, however, is obvious, that the man of mode and dress is but a mere innocent in companion to him: He is satisfied with thinking himself a pretty fellow; but the other insists on your acknowledging his superiority as the wiser man: Give the first a fine coat and a glass, and he entertains himself in soliloquy, without so much as throwing away a wish or thought on all the world beside; but the last, though, to the full, as much a self-lover, does not know his own image when he sees it, and is fond of the society of others, only that their follies and mistakes may serve as foils to his own suppos’d excellencies.

Quoted from: “Weekly Essays in March 1739.” In: The Scots Magazine. Vol. 1.