Men and Women of Fashion: Waldegrave

• Posted by mgr on January 19th, 2010 filed in Zeitdokumente
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A Few years ago, a clever satire was indited by a person every way qualified for the task, entitled ‘The Man of Ton,’ professing to elucidate the mysterious nature of that remarkable animal, while exhibiting him to the microscopic scrutiny of vulgar mortals. But fashion is as the shifting sandbank ! The Man of Ton of 1833 differs as widely from him of 1828, as Monsieur de Talleyrand from the New Zealander now playing the lion in our gay circles. The parterres of the beau monde, like those of the Chiswick Horticulturists, maintain their interest by the incessant production of new varieties ; and ’still the last is first.’ We are anxious, therefore, for the benefit of our country cousins and correspondents, to ‘each ere he glance,’ the Adonis ‘of the minute;’ the jeune élégant of the Travellers’,—the idol of Almack’s,—the Advantageous of Rotten Row ! Great and varied has been the succession of ‘men of fashion’ during our own time ; of Sir Godfrey Websters,—Petershams,— Sir Henry Mildmays,— Frank Russells,—William Lockes,— Castlereaghs, Stanleys— Forresters, &C.&C.; personages differing how widely from the incroyables, who, by certain extravagances of costume, address, or habits, engage the wonder of the milliners’ apprentices in St James’s street, or the Misses in Kensington Gardens! It would be invidious perhaps to elect a specific individual to fill the vacant throne; and we shall therefore proceed, Apelles-like, to cull from the united lists of the crack Clubs, of Newmarket, and of Lady Jersey, certain traits and graces calculated to form in combination the beau of ‘A Man of Fashion’ for the current season. Frankenstein forbore to name his monster - we are pleased to distinguish our own by the Bentleyan title of Waldegrave.

Waldegrave, then, the Hon. Edward Waldegrave—is the only son of a Viscount, past his climacteric, ‘or by’r lady inclining to threescore ; circumstance having due influence in the market on the value of his post-obits. Of Waldegrave’s allowance of one thousand per annum, seven hundred are bespoken by annuity ; and as the remaining three would fall far short of payment towards the interest of his shop debts, he wisely devotes them to current expenses,—of posthorses, and bushmoney to Lady R ’s old porter. Tradesmen’s accounts will stand on a five years’ credit as good as Waldegrave’s; for the Viscount is not only paralytic, but the pet patient of a fashionable physician !—Waldegrave is, of course, a pointed contemner of small distinctions. He is above the vulgar ambition of having a dozen horses in his stable; openly professes himself too poor for Melton, which he abandons to the wholesale aspirants for fashion,—young Baronets within a month or two of their majority, or broken down dandies, within a year or two of Calais. In London he has nothing but a pony, and a cab-horse reminds one of Madame Grandolphi in harness. Last season, he had a neat chariot with a splendid pair of thorough-bred bays. But his friend, young Rotherham, having a dozen equipages at his service, Waldegrave has lately dropped is carriage.—His dress is chiefly remarkable as reversing the general mode. Waldegrave’s skirts are long and scanty ;—the brim of his hat narrow ; his hair long,—his whiskers short. He would as soon enter Almack’s in a pair of red heels, as with varnished shoes ; and seldom appears there at all, unless to those who will take the trouble of looking for him behind the second right-hand sofa from the top of the room, where his topmost curl may be occasionally discerned over the fair shoulder of Lady R—— ; and where the fragrance of the Rose de Meaux in his pocket (he would die rather than wear it in his button hole) is occasionally perceptible.

Waldegrave is an early riser. He is visible, en robe de chambre, or toilette de bain, to his intimates, any time after one. At three, he walks to Lady R– to receive her commands for the day. At four, his cabriolet conveys him to the clubs; at six, he mounts his pony to stand still at the furthest extremity of the park, or to communicate the news of the day to Lady B–, whose britshka is always stationary somewhere towards the bridge beside the Serpentine. From eight to ten, he dines and happy is the gastronome whose cordon bleu is honoured by his erudite criticism ! Not that Waldegrave is a gourmand. He tastes a mouthful of fish or potage,—never of both ; half a mouthful of half a dozen entries, a plateful of salad, and a hint of two or three hors d’oeuvres ; looks at a leveret, or inserts an inquiring spoon into a fondu au fromage de Roquefort;—helps himself to ice and sends it away ;—eats Cayenne pepper with his pine apple, and after a tumbler of Sauterne and water at dinner, finishes with something less than half a bottle of claret, and a cup of pure green tea. He would as soon touch a dose of genuine Epsom as English coffee! Waldegrave has not made his appearance before the curtain at the King’s Theatre these ten years, but he is not the less versed in the attitudes of Taglioni, or the arabesques of Pierrot. Their Paris reputation suffices him. Who cares to see a dancer on the London boards?

Waldegrave is not of the number of those who fly from the dessert table to their cabriolet. He scrupulously makes his appearance in the drawing-room wherever he dines; for he takes care to dine only where drawing-rooms are attractive. He is usually the last lingerer on such occasions; lounging and whispering in the corner sofa, while others are fussing to get away to some Lady Mary Nobody’s, or to arrive an hour too soon at Devonshire House. But Waldegrave does not altogether abjure parties. He is sometimes seen for half an hour, at the head of the stairs, at some crowded ball; or, at the close of an evening, he suddenly emerges from some obscure corner, where he has been dreaming away an hour or two, solus cum sola, in the midst of five hundred of the two thousand persons called the world. His fame, however, is seldom involved in the gossip of gallantry. He knows better than to make himself talked of in such affairs; and his listless air and exquisite egotism effectually secure him from the vulgar imputation of un homme à bonnes fortunes; —Waldegrave would as soon be called a Melton man at once, or a dandy—or any other specificaion of the canaille des fashionables. (The word ‘fashionable,’ be it observed, is now as classical a Parisianism as beefstek de mouton!)

Waldegrave sups at Crockford’s or the Travelers’,—unless when the French Embassy and Lord Hertford ’spread their tables ; he has little confidence in any other cuisine de parade. Gunter’s garnished chickens are notoriously tough as old Lady A– in her wreath of roses ; his jambon is salt, his macédoine, hotch-potch. Where Waldegrave passes the remainder of his night, it is impossible to divine. He is too decidedly a man of fashion to affect the roué. Lord R–, who lives and will die at the Hazard table, assures us that Waldegrave never plays; but how else can a man dispose of his time from three till six, who has never danced a step since waltzing found its way into the ultramondane regions of Marylebone?

Waldegrave, now that he has lost his seat in Parliament, is becoming a politician. It is many years since he opened a book, with the exception of certain numbers of the Edinburgh Review, supposed to contain his own essays. He has been lately accused of a flight of fancy in the Court Magazine; but this, we are bound to say, is calumnious.

Such is our modern ‘Man of Fashion;’—in an early number we intend to forestal the march of events, and to exhibit Waldegrave as Benedick, the married man.

From: The Court Journal. Gazette of the Fashionable World. Nr. 212, May 18, 1833.

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