Dandysme » Advice to Julia

Advice to Julia

Posted by mgr on January 29th, 2009 filed in HISTORISCHES, Zeitdokumente
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Then follow observations critical,
Or jokes on men and things political;
Much of the Regent and his Fêtes,
Much of divisions and debates,
Of motions, speeches, names misquoted
In the last list of those who voted.
Thence to Newmarket and the races
Shifting, they tell of lengthened faces,
When for their debts Black Monday calls
Folks to account at Tattersall’s;
Of all the baffled hedger feels
When legs are taking to their heels;
How suddenly aghast he looks,
When his, the paragon of books,
That book whose value far outshone
Lord Spencer’s famed Decameron,
Becomes, hey, presto! quick as thought,
Not worth the fraction of a groat!

Such is the tattle of our Beaus
These simple elements compose
Where’er you drive, or ride, or walk,
The Macedoine of London talk.
What if the mixture strange appear
To Squires? should they affect to sneer,
Or gravely vote, in spite to us,
What thus we deal in—frivolous?
Let them in earnest, or in fun, try
If they can match it in the country;
If of their fabric any particle
Is equal to our town-made article;
If their choice topics are as charming,
Their justice-ing, or hounds, or farming,
At which, when, jaded by the labour
Of listening, tenant nods, and neighbour,
The very chaplain shakes his head,
And steals, unbeneficed, to bed.

How much at home was Charles in all
The talk aforesaid—nicknamed small!
Seldom embarrassed, never slow,
His maxim always “touch and go;”
From grave to gay he ran with ease,
Secure alike in both to please.
Chanced he to falter? A grimace
Was ready in the proper place;
Or a chased snuff-box, with its gems
And gold, to mask his ha’s and hems,
Was offered round, and duly rapped,
Till a fresh topic could be tapped.
What if his envious rivals swore
‘Twas jargon all, and he a bore?
The surly sentence was outvoted,
His jokes retailed, his jargon quoted;
And while he sneered or quizzed or flirted,
The world, half angry, was diverted.

Now is the clatter of his mill,
With all its rush of waters, still;
His chimes are motionless become,
His ear-subduing larum dumb.
Yes, Julia, your resistless battery
Has silenced jokes, and sneers, and flattery:
Now seldom seen, more seldom heard,
He shrugs—but utters scarce a word,
And bears about, like muzzled hound,
“A tongue chained up without a sound!”

Once would he loiter, ere ’twas dark,
‘Mongst Nymphs and Satyrs in the Park:
The Park! that magnet of the town,
That idol to which all bow down.
See how the universal throng,
Borne in one swelling tide along,
Crowds to its turf-clad altars, there
To beg the blessing of fresh air!
Throughout the week, but most on one day
Enjoyed beyond all others—Sunday,
With many a mutual punch and shove,
To Hyde Park Corner on they move.
Like bees, that, when the weather’s warm,
Grow weary of their hives and swarm,
All active on that day of rest,
Pressing on every side, and pressed
In “Phoebus eye” from east to west,*
With a fair chance, while thus they busy ‘em,
To “sleep” that evening “in Elysium.”

*from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phoebus and all night
Sleeps in Elysium.
Shaksp.

(…)

Dark are the mists exhaled from passion.
How have they dimmed this glass of fashion!
Julia, to you the loss we owe
Of all that’s perfect in a Beau.
You’ve marred the model, bent the rule,
Disgraced and broken up the school
Where unfledged coxcombs, newly caught,
Were, by his bright example, taught
More in one season, than their peers
Now master in a dozen years.

But how shall I, unblamed, express
The awful mysteries of Dress;
How, all unpractised, dare to tell
The art sublime, ineffable,
Of making middling men look well;
Men who had been such heavy sailors
But for their shoe-makers and tailors?
So, by the cutler’s sharpening skill,
The bluntest weapons wound and kill:
So, when ’tis scarcely fit to eat,
Good cooks, by dressing, flavour meat.

And as, by steam impressed with motion
‘Gainst wind and tide, across the ocean,
The merest tub will far outstrip
The progress of the lightest ship
That ever on the waters glided,
If with an engine unprovided;—
Thus Beaus, in person and in mind
Excelled by those they leave behind,
On, through the world, undaunted, press,
Backed by the mighty power of Dress;
While folks less confident than they
Stare, in mute wonder,—and give way.

Charles was a master, a professor
Of this great art—a first-rate dresser.
Oft have I traced him through the town,
Mowing whole ranks of beauty down,
Armed at all points, from head to foot,
From rim of hat to tip of boot.
Above so loose, below so braced,
In chest exuberant, and in waist
Just like an hour-glass, or a wasp,
So tightened, he could scarcely gasp.
Cold was the nymph who did not dote
Upon him, in his new-built coat;
Whose heart could parry the attacks
Of his voluminous Cossacks—
Trowsers so called from those barbarians
Nursed in the Steppes—the Crim-Tartarians,
Who, when they scour a country, under
Those ample folds conceal their plunder.
How strange their destiny has been!
Promoted, since the year fifteen,
In honour of these fierce allies,
To grace our British legs and thighs.
Fashion’s a tide which nothing stems,
So the Don mingles with the Thames!”

But, ere his darts were aimed to kill,
One charm, he knew, was wanting still.
“Weak,” would he cry, “are the attacks
“Of your voluminous Cossacks.
“In vain to suffocation braced
“And bandaged is your wasp-like waist;
“In vain your buckram-wadded shoulders
“And chest astonish all beholders;
“Wear any coat you will, ’tis fruitless;
“Those shoes, those very boots are bootless,
“Whose tops (’twas I advised the mixture)
“Are moveable, and spurs a fixture:
“All is unprofitable, flat,
“And stale, without a smart Cravat,
“Muslined enough to hold its starch—
“That last key-stone of Fashion’s arch!”

“Have you, my friend,” I’ve heard him say,
“Been lucky in your turns to-day?—
“Think not that what I ask alludes
“To Fortune’s stale vicissitudes,
“To her capricious ups and downs,
“Her treacherous smiles, or withering frowns:
“Nor have I now, alas! to learn
“How cards, and dice, and women turn,
“And what prodigious contributions
“They levy, in their revolutions:
“Nor heed I, if, in times so critical,
“You’ve managed well your turns political.
“The turns of your Cravat I mean,
“Tell me if these have lucky been?
“Have your attempts at once succeeded,
“Or (while an hour has passed unheeded
“And unregretted) have you toiled
“Till a week’s laundry has been spoiled,
“Ere round your neck, in every fold
“Exact, the muslin has been rolled,
“And, dexterously in front confined,
“Has kept the proper set behind;
“Not letting loose, nor pinning in
“One jot too much of cheek or chin?
“In short, by dint of hand and eye,
“Have you achieved a perfect tie?—
“These are my turns,—’twere idle pother
“To waste a thought on any other.

“Should yours (kind heaven, avert the omen!)
“Like the cravats of vulgar, low men,
“Asunder start—and, yawning wide,
“Disclose a chasm on either side,
“Letting, behind its checkered screen,
“The secrets of your throat be seen;
“Or should it stubbornly persist
“To take some awkward tasteless twist,
“Some crease indelible, and look
“Just like a dunce’s dog’s-eared book,
“How would you parry the disgrace?
“In what assembly show your face?
“How brook your rival’s scornful glance,
“Or partner’s titter in the dance?
“How, in the morning, dare to meet
“The quizzers of the park or street?
“Your occupation’s gone,—in vain
“Hope to dine out, or flirt again.
“The ladies from their lists will put you,
“And even I, my friend, must cut you!”

Such once was Charles.—No doctrine sounder
Than his, no principles profounder;
And well he practised what he knew,
Himself the great sublime he drew!
Ere yet, in deep dismay, the town
Mourned o’er his abdicated crown,
Such was our hero,—now where is he?
Fall’n headlong from a height so dizzy,
(Regardless of the shame and risk,)
Charm’d by your eyes, you basilisk!
These, Julia, are the tender mercies
Of you enchantresses, you Circes!
See him, almost a sloven grown,
Muse on your shape, neglect his own.
His absent thoughts, like needle true,
Not on the muslin fixed, but you,
And for his image, in the glass
Viewing, or fancying yours, my lass,
On cheeks that glow, on lips that pout
He gazes, till his hand is out.
Then, all his turns are put to flight,
Then fade the tapers on his sight.
Visions of Love and Beauty rise,
And wean him from his dearest ties.

No more his well-brushed hair is sleek
With eau de miel, or huile antique.
The golden key no more unlocks,
By Bramah’s aid, his rose-wood box;
And with the treasures there displayed,
Dazzles the wondering chambermaid;
As, on her broom reclined, she pauses,
Ogling the silver cups and vases,
Whence steams a mingled soft perfume,
New to her nostrils, through the room.

No more with buckram or with wool
His overloaded bosom’s full;
One glance from you is quite enough
To “cleanse it of that perilous stuff.”
Loosed by the spell of your endearments,
His tortured ribs have burst their cerements,
And, like delinquents freed from jail,
His waist is fairly out on bail.
Julia, you’ve moved its habens-corpus;
But when the man is grown a porpus,
Long, long before the season’s ended,
You’ll wish it had been still suspended.

Converted thus, with all the zeal
Which converts or affect or feel,
For errors past he makes amends,
By quizzing all his former friends;
Forgets how long he was their tutor,
And grows at once their persecutor;
Derides the stiff cravats and collars
And braces of his favourite scholars,
Laughs at his own apostate jokes,
And dresses—just like other folks.

If **** sends a card to dine,
The fool’s engaged, or drinks no wine;
Though, all last season, what a swiller he
Was of Champaigne, mousseux and sillery,
At every mouthful, all the way
From soup to fondu and soufflé!
Digressing, in the heat of action,
To Burgundy, from mere distraction,
And thence to perfumed hock, and from it
Scenting the vintage of the comet.
Scarce pausing, when he had so far eat,
How knowingly he’d sip his claret!
With gentle undulation handle
The glass, upheld ‘twixt nose and candle,
That glass so thin in bowl and stem,
Which just suspends the liquid gem;
Then, with a wager or an oath,
Pronounce upon its age and growth.

How changed! For him the iced Champaigue
Steams from its silver vase in vain;
Round after round, decanters pass
Unheeded by his empty glass.
He’s quite ashamed to be punctilious,
But never was a man so bilious;
Talks of the fruits of living gaily,
Of Calomel, and Doctor Baillie;
Has lost his taste, can scarcely tell
A Salmi from a Bechamelle;
Swears there’s no banquetting like love,
No turtle like the turtle-dove;
And, ere the wine comes round again,
Shies, bolts—and slips away by ten.

I hear (perhaps the story false is)
From Almack’s, that he never waltzes;
With Lady Anne, or Lady Biddy
Twirling, till he’s in love or giddy;
The girl a pigmy, he a giant,
His cravat stiff, her corset pliant.
There, while some jaded couple stops,
The rest go round like humming-tops,
Each in the circle, with its neighbour
Sharing, alternate rest and labour:
While many a gentle chaperon
(As the fair Dervises spin on)
Sighs, with regret, that she was courted
Ere this new fashion was imported,
Ere the dull minuet-step had vanished,
With jigs and country-capers banished.

But Charles, whose energy relaxes,
No more revolves upon his axis,
As sounds of cymbal and of drum,
Deep clanging, from th’ orchestra come,
And round him moves, in radiance bright,
Some beauteous beaming satellite;
Nor ventures, as the night advances,
On a new partner in French dances;
Nor, his high destiny fulfilling
Through all the mazes of quadrilling,
Holds, lest the figure should be hard,
Close to his nose a printed card.
Which, for their special use invented,
To Beaus, on entrance, is presented;
A strange device, one must allow,
But useful—as it tells them how
To foot it in the proper places.
Much better than their partners’ faces.

(…)

And say, do they abuse their powers
‘Gainst ultra-fashionable hours?—
Here once you walked your midnight round
In vain,—no creature could be found,
Save a few stragglers, in the vapours
From gazing at the walls and tapers.
Then not a dance could be begun,
Waltz, or quadrille, till after One;
While, without music, friends, or books
Perchance, at home on tenter-hooks,
The least contended with the greatest
Who should come lounging in the latest.
But is not now the law, in letter
And spirit, altered for the better,
Since our fair Sovereigns’ last Ukase
Has peopled the enchanted place,
And forced the crowd, ere midnight strike,
To do the very thing they like?
All, with their other pleasures, gaining
Perhaps the greatest—of complaining.