Chapter I: HAVE often been surprised, that among the many descriptions which (2)

It is, I presume, upon the principle of precaution already mentioned, that our Fashionable young men are not always intrusted to the care of persons distinguished for the practice of piety. It is not impossible, indeed, that, either from the conversation, the connexions, or the example of the preceptor, the pupil may contract certain habits, which it was not the precise object of his education to produce. But then the evil is not so great as fastidious moralists would insinuate. For, as the youth is to figure in the circles of Fashion, he will only have learnt, a little before the time, those practices which are to form a part of his manly character: and though it might, perhaps, be as well, if he did not learn to swear and rake quite so soon; yet it is some consolation, that he has escaped those methodistical impressions, which would have prevented him from swearing and raking as long as he lived.

It may also be considered as some confirmation of the reasoning above employed, that parents introduce their children as early as possible to the amusements of the theatre. Now, though swearing, and raking, and gaming, when carried to excess, are blamed even by persons of Fashion themselves; yet it is notorious, that a reasonable proportion of each is indispensably requisite to a popular character in the circles of refinement. Habits of this sort must not be precipitately taken up. There must be a schooling for the man of pleasure, as well as for the man of letters: and certainly no school exists, in which the elements of modish vice can be studied with greater promise of proficiency, than the public theatres. When it is considered, at what pains the managers of the stage are, to import the seducing dramas of Germany, as well as to get up the loose productions of the English Muse; when it is further considered, how studious the actors and actresses are to do justice, and even more than justice, to the luscious scenes of the piece; to give effect to the equivoques, by an arch emphasis; and to the oaths, by a dauntless intonation:—when to all this is added, how many painted strumpets are stuck about the theatre, in the boxes, the galleries, and the avenues; and how many challenges to prostitution are thrown out in every direction: it will, I think, be difficult to imagine places better adapted, than the theatres at this moment are, to teach the theory and practice of Fashionable iniquity.

What has been observed on the subject of education, though said principally with reference to the male branches of Fashionable families, will yet, with a few changes, be found applicable to the youth of the other sex. The principal points upon which their scheme of education is brought to bear, are those of dissipation and display. A brilliant finger on the piano, wanton flexions in the dance, a rage for operas, plays, and parties, and the faculty of undergoing the fatiguing evolutions of a Fashionable life, without compunction of conscience, sense of weariness, or indications of disgust, are qualifications which she who has acquired, will be considered as wanting little of a perfect education.

The same assiduity is discovered on the part of the parents, to train their girls for the sphere of polite life, as has been already observed with respect to the boys; and the methods that are pursued to accomplish this end, are very nearly the same. The blush of virgin-modesty (it is naturally foreseen) would be extremely inconvenient, not to say absolutely indecorous, in a woman of Fashion; and therefore it is wisely resolved, that such steps shall be taken upon the girl’s growing into life, as may most effectually destroy it. The theatre seems principally to be resorted to for this purpose; and it must be manifest, from what has been already advanced, that no expedient could have been better chosen. As intrigue is the life of the drama, and this cannot be carried on, without expressions, attitudes, and communications between the sexes, of a very particular nature, there is every reason for regarding the stage as a sovereign remedy for the infirmity of _blushing_.

There are other things to be said on behalf of the theatre, as a school of polite morality.

It has already appeared, that the system of Ethics which prevails among people of Fashion, differs materially from the received system of unfashionable Christians. Now, I know not any means by which a stranger, anxious to ascertain, wherein that difference consists, could better satisfy his enquiries, than by visiting the theatres. The doctrine of the stage, therefore, exhibiting (as nearly as possible) the standard morality of polite society, nothing could be better imagined, than to give the embryo woman of Fashion the earliest opportunity of learning to so much advantage, those lessons which she is afterwards to practise through life. What she has imbibed in the nursery, and what she hears in the church, would inspire her with a dread—perhaps a dislike—of many things upon which she must learn hereafter to look with familiar indifference, if not with absolute complacency. She might thus (if some remedy were not provided) be led to take up with certain melancholy principles, which would either shut her out from the society of her friends, or make her miserable among them. But the stage corrects all this; and more than counterbalances the impressions of virtue, by stratagems of the happiest contrivance.

It is worthy of attention, how much ingenuity is displayed in bringing about that moral temperament, which is necessary for the meridian of Fashion. The rake, who is debauching innocence, squandering away property, and extending the influence of licentiousness to the utmost of his power, would (if fairly represented) excite spontaneous and universal abhorrence. But this result would be extremely inconvenient; since raking, seduction, and prodigality, make half the business, and almost all the reputation, of men of Fashion. What, then, must be done?—Some qualities of acknowledged excellence must be associated with these vicious propensities, in order to prevent them from occasioning unmingled disgust. We may, I presume, refer it to the same policy, that in dramas of the greatest popularity, the worthless libertine is represented as having at the bottom some of those properties which reflect most honour upon human nature; while—as if to throw the balance still more in favour of vice—the man of professed virtue is delineated as being in the main a sneaking and hypocritical villain. Lessons such as these are not likely to be lost upon the ingenuous feelings of a young girl. For, besides the fascinations of an elegant address and an artful manner, the whole conduct of the plot is an insidious appeal to the simplicity of her heart. She is taught to believe, by these representations, that profligacy is the exuberance of a generous nature, and decorum the veil of a bad heart: so that having learnt, in the outset of her career, to associate frankness with vice, and duplicity with virtue, she will not be likely to separate these combinations during the remainder of her life.

To enter further into the minute details of a Fashionable education, would only be to travel over ground which has been often and ingeniously explored by writers of the greatest eminence. Enough has been said to show, that the system of education adopted by this people, like every other branch of their economy, is adapted to qualify the parties for that polite intercourse with each other, which seems to constitute the very end of their being. And if it be considered, of what nature that intercourse is, it will occasion no surprise, that the education which prepares for it should be expressly adapted to confound the distinctions of virtue and vice; and to inculcate, with that view,—duplicity in religion, and prevarication in morals.

CHAP. V.

MANNERS—LANGUAGE.

THE _Manners_ of this people are remarkably artificial. They appear to do every thing by rule; and not a word, a look, or a movement escapes them, but what has at one time or other been studied. In every part of their demeanour they have reference to some invisible standard, which they call the _Ton_, or the Fashion, (from which latter term they have derived their appellation;) and by this mysterious talisman their manners, their dress, their language, and the whole of their behaviour, are tried. It is singular enough, that this standard which is to fix every thing, is itself the most variable of all things. The changes which it undergoes are so rapid, that it requires a sort of telegraphic communication to become acquainted with them: and though there is no regular way by which they may be known, yet nothing is considered so disgraceful as not to know them.

The fluctuations to which this standard is subject, render it difficult to catch the features of people of Fashion, or to speak with any precision upon the exterior of their character. They are, in fact, moulded and modified by such capricious and indefinable circumstances, that he who would exhibit a true picture of their manners, must write a history of the endless transmutations through which they are compelled to pass. It has, indeed, been remarked by nice observers, that a dissimulation of their sentiments and their feelings, is a feature in the character of this people, which never forsakes them; and that amidst all the revolutions which their other habits experience, this master-principle preserves an unchanging uniformity. Nor is it sufficient to overthrow this reasoning, that, among the innovations of recent times, the manners of people of Fashion have been brought into an affected resemblance to those of their inferiors. The cropped head, and groomish dress of the men, and the noisy tone and vulgar air of the women, would almost persuade a stranger that these are blunt and artless people, and that they love nothing so much as honesty and plain-dealing. The fact, however, is, that though the mode of playing is varied, yet the game of dissimulation is still going on. This condescension to vulgarity is, after all, the disguise of pride, and not the dress of simplicity; and is as remote from the sincerity which it imitates, as from the refinement which it renounces.

An exaggerated opinion of their own importance is, in reality, a prevailing characteristic of the Fashionable World.

The Greeks and Romans were thought to have gone too far, when they called all nations but their own _barbarians_; but people of Fashion go a step farther: for they consider themselves _every body_, and the rest of the world _nobody_. The influence of this sentiment is sufficiently discernible over the whole of their character. It dictates to their affections, and robs them, in many instances, of their spontaneity, their sweetness, and their force. It results from this conceit, that their love is often artificial, their friendship ceremonious, and their charity ungracious. In a word, the whole of their demeanour is such as might be expected from a people, who idolize the most frivolous or the most vicious propensities of human nature; and estimate as _nothing_, the talents, and industry, and virtue, which adorn it.

Their _Language_ would afford great scope for discussion; but the limits which I have prescribed to my work, will not allow me to embrace it. I shall, however, throw together such remarks as may enable the reader to form some judgment of it; and refer him, for more extended information upon it, to those modish compositions in which it is conveyed, and to the circles in which it is spoken.

Their _language_, then, is generally a dialect of the people among whom they reside. They do, it is true, intersperse their conversational dialogue with scraps of French and Italian; they also construct their complimentary phrases with singular dexterity; they have, besides, certain epithets; such as _dashing_, _stylish_, &c. which may be considered as perfectly their own:—but if these be excepted, the rest of their language is, to the best of my judgment, wholly vernacular.

It must not, however, be supposed, that because these people use the terms of the country in which they live, they therefore use them in their ordinary and received acceptation. Nothing can be farther from the fact. I verily believe, that if the whole nomenclature of Fashion were examined from beginning to end, scarcely twenty words would be found, which in passing over to the regions of Fashion, have not left their native and customary sense behind them.

In support of this observation I shall cite, for the reader’s satisfaction, a brief extract from a private memorandum, which I had originally made with a design of constructing a Fashionable glossary.

_Vernacular Terms_. _Fashionable Sense_. Age An infirmity which nobody owns. Buying Ordering goods without present purpose of payment. Conscience Something to swear by. Courage Fear of man. Cowardice Fear of God. Day Night. Debt A necessary evil. Decency Keeping up appearances. Dinner Supper. Dressed Half-naked. Duty Doing as other people do. Economy (Obsolete.) Enthusiasm Religion in earnest. Fortune The chief-good. Friend (Meaning not known.) Home Every body’s house but one’s own. Honour The modern Moloch, worshipped with licentious rites and human victims. Knowing Expert in folly and vice. Life Destruction of body and soul. Love (Meaning not known.) Modest Sheepish. New Delightful. Night Day. Nonsense Polite conversation. Old Insufferable. Pay Only applied to visits. Play Serious work. Protection Keeping a mistress. Religion Occupying a seat in some church or chapel. Spirit Contempt of decorum and conscience. Style Splendid extravagance. Thing (the) Any thing but what a man should be. Time Only regarded in music and dancing. Truth (Meaning uncertain). Virtue Any agreeable quality. Vice Only applied to servants and horses. Undress Complete clothing. Wicked Irresistibly agreeable. Work A vulgarism.

I am far from pretending to have assigned the precise significations in which the words above cited are employed by people of Fashion. Perhaps I have done as much towards fixing the sense, as will be expected of one who cannot pretend to be perfectly in their confidence. In fact, the transmutation of terms is an operation to which this people are most devoutly addicted. It is daily making some advances among them; and keeps pace with the progress of their ideas, from the correct and authentic notions of truth and virtue, to those loose and spurious ones by which they are superseded.

In proof of this statement, I need only adduce those phrases in which they are accustomed to pronounce the eulogium of their deceased associates.

For example,—Is reference made to an unthinking profligate who has lately been hurried from the world? His vices are glanced at, and cursorily condemned: but still it is affirmed, that, with all his faults, he always _meant well_; he had _a good heart __at the bottom_; and he was _nobody’s enemy but his own_.

And for whom is this apology offered, and this praise indirectly solicited? For the man who, if he ever meant any thing, meant nothing more or better, than to gratify his lusts, pursue his vicious pleasures, drink his wine, shake his dice, shuffle his cards; and thus waste his existence, and destroy his soul. Of such a man it is gravely affirmed, that—_he always meant well_.

And of whom is it said, that he had _a good heart_?—Of the man who rarely manifested, through the whole of his life, any other symptoms than those which indicate a bad one. His mouth was full of cursing and bitterness; his humour was choleric and revengeful; his feet moved swift to shed blood; there was no conscience in his bosom, and no fear of God before his eyes; and yet, because he was occasionally charitable, and habitually convivial, no doubt is entertained but that—_he had a good heart at the bottom_.

Lastly, _he_ is said to have been _nobody’s enemy but his own_, who has wasted the earnings of an industrious ancestor, and bequeathed beggary and shame to his innocent descendants. The wretch has distressed his family by his prodigality, and corrupted thousands by his example; and yet, because he has been the dupe of his lusts, and fallen a martyr to his vices, he is pronounced to have been—_nobody’s enemy but his own_.

These instances will serve to throw some light upon the sort of idiom employed by people of Fashion; and the manner in which they have wrested expressions of no little importance, from their natural and legitimate signification.

But before I quit the consideration of their _language_, I think it my duty to point out another peculiarity; of which, to the best of my knowledge, no satisfactory account has yet been given. Whether it arise from the paucity of their words, the confusion of their ideas, or any other cause distinct from each of these, so it is, that they have but _one_ term by which they are accustomed to express their strong emotions both of pleasure and pain. On this _term_ you will find them ringing perpetual changes; and, strange to say, it is to be heard, under one or other of its grammatical inflections, {104} in almost every sentence which falls from their lips. The master has recourse to it in scolding his servants, the officer in reprimanding his men. The traveller employs it in recounting his adventures, and the man of pleasure in describing his intrigues. It is heard in the house, and in the field; in moments of seriousness, and of levity; in expressions of praise, and of blame. In short, it is used on occasions the most dissimilar, under impressions the most contradictory, and for purposes the most opposite; and is, in fact, the _sine quâ non_ of every energetic and emphatical period.

Now it happens, unfortunately, that this _catholicon_ in Fashionable phraseology is, of all terms, that to which sober Christians annex the most awful ideas; and from the use of which they as scrupulously abstain, as they do from that of the Great Being whose vengeance it so tremendously expresses. And it may be worthy of consideration, whether this familiar and unfeeling employment, by people of Fashion, of a term which imports _infernal punishment_, does not strengthen those doubts which have been already suggested, of their real belief in a place of future torment.

It ought not at the same time to be overlooked, that, in this respect, they bear a close resemblance to the vulgarest part of the community; and it would furnish a subject of curious investigation, why two classes in society, respectively the highest and the lowest, should exhibit so striking an agreement in a material branch of language. I know it has been said, that extremes meet; and the fact before us is so much proof that the remark is just: but that by no means solves the difficulty. For, after all, the question returns upon us, _why_ such a fact should exist? I confess, for my own part, I know no answer that can be given to it; and I very much wish that some one of their number would undertake to explain their real motives for courting a resemblance in _one_ respect with that description of society, from which they make it their pride to differ in every _other_.

CHAP. VI.

DRESS—AMUSEMENTS.

THERE are, in the _Dress_ of this people, many singularities, upon which, he who wished to say every thing that could be said, might say a great deal. The peculiarity which a stranger would be most apt to remark, is that of their striving to be as unlike as possible to the rest of the world. This appears, indeed, to be the parent of almost every other peculiarity; and certainly gives birth to many changes not a little ridiculous and prejudicial.

It being a sort of fundamental maxim with them, that superiority consists in dissimilitude, they become engaged in a perpetual competition with the world at large, and to a certain degree with each other. In order to maintain this struggle for pre-eminence, they are compelled to vary the modes and materials of their dress in all the ways which a fanciful imagination can suggest. It happens, through some strange infatuation, that those who affect to despise the man or woman of Fashion, yet ape their dress and air with the most impertinent and vexatious perseverance. What is to be done in this case?—Similitude is not to be endured. In order therefore to throw out their pursuers, these monopolizers of the mode are compelled to run into such eccentricities, as nothing could justify or palliate, but the distress to which they are reduced. If, for example, short skirts and low capes are copied by the herd of imitators, the Fashionables seek their remedy in the opposite extreme; their skirts are drawn down to the calves of their legs, and their capes pulled over their ears with as much solemnity and dispatch, as if their existence depended upon the measure. So if full petticoats and high kerchiefs are adopted by the misses of the crowd, the dressing-chambers of Fashion are all bustle and confusion:—the limbs are stripped, and the bosom laid bare, though the east wind may be blowing at the time; and coughs, rheumatisms, and consumptions, be upon the wings of every blast.

This rage for dissimilitude in the affairs of the _wardrobe_, is allowed an indefinite scope. Unfortunately, as far as I can learn, there are no determinate points, beyond which it would be esteemed indecent or imprudent to indulge it. The consequence is, that the _groom_ and the _gentleman_ may be often mistaken for each other; and he who is recognised to-day as a _man of Fashion_, may to-morrow be confounded with _one of the people_.

I confess I have always regarded this part of their conduct as an impeachment of their political wisdom. I should have thought _à priori_, that a people who are so jealous of their pre-eminence in society, would not have overlooked the degree in which dress contributes to uphold it. Many a Fashionable man must depend for the whole of his estimation, upon the cut of his coat, and the selection of his wardrobe. A frivolous or preposterous taste may therefore prove fatal to the only sort of reputation which it was in his power to obtain. But besides, an interchange of dress between people of Fashion and those whom they consider their inferiors, may eventually produce very serious mischiefs. The distinctions of rank and condition are manifestly matters of external regulation, and consequently cannot be kept up without a due attention to external appearances. He therefore who makes himself vulgar or ridiculous, is guilty of an act of self-degradation; and the fault will be his own, if he is displaced or despised; since he has renounced that appropriate costume, which proclaimed at once his station in society, and his determination to maintain it.

The fair-sex appear also on their part to set all limits and restraints at defiance. They seem to feel themselves at perfect liberty to follow the prevailing mode, whatever that mode may be. The consequence is, that _modesty_ is often the last thing considered by the young, and _propriety_ as completely neglected by the old. And this latter circumstance may serve to account in some measure for the little respect which is said to be paid to _age_ in the Fashionable World. To judge from the histories of all nations, it seems impossible, that length of days, if accompanied with those characteristics which denote and become it, should not excite spontaneous veneration. But if the shrivelled arm must be bound in ribbands and bracelets, if the withered limbs must be wrapped in muslins and gauzes, and the wrinkled face be decorated with ringlets and furbelows, the silly veteran waves the privilege of her years; and since she disgusts the grave, without captivating the gay, she must not be surprized if she meets with respect from neither.

A fondness for _amusements_ is one of the strongest characteristics of this people.—They may almost be said to live for little else. They pass the whole of that short day which they allow themselves, in making arrangements for spending the ensuing night. Indeed, their preference of night to day is such, that they seem to consider the latter as having no other value than as it leads to the former, and affords an opportunity of preparing for its enjoyment. And hence I suppose it is, that such multitudes among them dine by candle-light, and go to bed by day-light.

This passion for diversions renders the _Sunday_ particularly irksome to persons of any sort of _ton_ in the Fashionable World. A dose of piety in the morning is well enough, though it is somewhat inconvenient to take it quite so early; but then it wants an opera, or a play, or a dance, to carry it off. There are indeed some _esprit-forts_ among the ladies, who are trying with no little success to redeem a portion of the Sabbath from the insufferable bondage of the Bible and the sermon-book; and to naturalize that continental distribution of the day, which gives the morning to devotion, and the evening to dissipation. It is but justice to the gentlemen to say, that they discover no backwardness in supporting a measure so consonant to all their wishes. It is therefore not impossible that some considerable changes in this respect may soon be brought about. That good-humoured legislature which has allowed a Sunday newspaper, {116} will perhaps not always refuse a Sunday opera, or play. People of Fashion will then no longer have to torture their invention for expedients to supply the absence of their diurnal diversions. They may then let their tradesmen go quietly to their parish-churches, instead of sending for them to wear away the sabbath-hours in some supervacaneous employment. In short, Sunday may be set at liberty from its primitive bondage, and exhibit as happy a union of morning solemnity and evening licentiousness, as it has ever displayed among the dissolute adherents of Fashionable Christianity.

But to return:—The rage for amusements {119} is so strong in this people, that it seems to supersede all exercise of judgment in the choice and the conduct of them. To go every where, see every thing, and know every body, are, in their estimation, objects of such importance, that, in order to accomplish them, they subject themselves to the greatest inconveniences, and commit the very grossest absurdities. Hence they will rush in crowds, to shine where they cannot be seen, to dance where they cannot move, and to converse with friends whom they cannot approach; and, what is more, though they cannot breathe for the pressure, and can scarcely live for the heat, yet they call this—enjoyment.

Nor does this passion suffer any material abatement by the progress of time. Many veterans visit, to the last, the haunts of polite dissipation; they lend their countenance to those dramas of vanity in which they can no longer act a part; and show their incurable attachment to the pleasures of this world, by their unwillingness to decline them. The infirmities which attend upon the close of life are certainly designed to produce other habits; and it should seem, that when every thing announces an approaching dissolution, the amusements of the drawing-room might give place to the employments of the closet. Persons, however, of this description are of another mind; and as every difficulty on the score of teeth, hoariness, and wrinkles, can be removed by the happy expedients of ivory, hair-caps, and cosmetics, there is certainly no _physical_ objection to their continuing among their Fashionable acquaintance, till they are wanted in another world.

I cannot illustrate this part of my subject better than by presenting my readers with the following Ode on the Spring, supposed to have been written by a man of Fashion; it expresses, with so much exactness, the sentiments and taste of that extraordinary people, that it will stand in the place of a thousand observations upon their character.

ODE ON THE SPRING.

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY A MAN OF FASHION.

I.

LO! where the party-giving dames,
Fair Fashion’s train, appear;
Disclose the long-expected games,
And wake the modish year:
The opera-warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the actor’s note,
The dear-bought harmony of Spring;
While, beaming pleasure as they fly,
Bright flambeaus through the murky sky
Their welcome fragrance fling.

II.

Where’er the rout’s full myriads close
The staircase and the door,
Where’er thick files of belles and beaus
Perspire through ev’ry pore:
Beside some faro-table’s brink,
With me the Muse shall _stand_ and think,
(Hemm’d sweetly in by squeeze of state,)
How vast the comfort of the crowd,
How condescending are the proud,
How happy are the great!

III.

Still is the toiling hand of Care,
The drays and hacks repose;
But, hark, how through the vacant air
The rattling clamour glows!
The wanton Miss and rakish Blade,
Eager to join the masquerade,
Through streets and squares pursue their fun:
Home in the dusk some bashful skim;
Some, ling’ring late, their motley trim
Exhibit to the sun.

IV.

To Dissipation’s playful eye,
Such is the life for man;
And they that halt, and they that fly,
Should have no other plan:
Alike the busy and the gay
Should sport all night till break of day,
In Fashion’s varying colours drest;
Till seiz’d for debt through rude mischance,
Or chill’d by age, they leave the dance,
In gaol or dust—to rest.

V.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
Some sober quiz reply,
Poor child of Folly! what art thou?
A Bond-Street Butterfly!
Thy choice nor Health nor Nature greets,
No taste hast thou of vernal sweets,
Enslav’d by noise, and dress, and play:
Ere thou art to the country flown,
The sun will scorch, the Spring be gone,—
Then leave the town in May.

CHAP. VII.

HAPPINESS OF THE PEOPLE ESTIMATED.