And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain’d,
Which wind ne’er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.
Another’s diving bow he did adore,
Which, with a bag, casts all the hair before;—
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.”
I have elsewhere noticed that for a “beau” to comb his peruke was a matter of serious business; but it was even more. To do so in presence of a “belle” was to behave to her as became the very pink of politeness. “A wit’s wig,” says Wycherly’s ‘Ranger,’ “has the privilege of being uncombed in the very playhouse, or in the presence⸺” “Ay,” interrupts Dapperwit, “but not in the presence of his mistress; ’tis a greater neglect of her than himself. If she has smugg’d herself up for me, let me plume and flounce my peruke a little for her; there’s ne’er a young fellow in town but will do as much for a mere stranger in the playhouse. Pray lend me your comb.” “Well,” says Ranger, “I would not have men of wit and courage make use of every fop’s mean arts to keep or gain a mistress.” Dapperwit. “But don’t you see every day, though a man have ne’er so much wit and courage, his mistress will revolt to those fops who wear and comb perukes well? She comes! she comes! pray, your comb!” and thereupon, snatching Ranger’s comb, he commences drawing it through the wavy honours of his wig, in order to do honour to, and be seen doing it by, his “dear Miss Lucy.” In such wise did Wycherly hold the mirror up to nature, as I find it in his Comedies, published by Richard Bentley, not of New Burlington-street, but by his good ancestor, who, in 1694, tabernacled “at the Post House, in Russell-street, in Covent Garden, near the Piazza’s,” as it is written; and who delighted the then novel-reading world with such delectable novels as ‘Zelinda,’ ‘Count Brion,’ ‘The Happy Slave,’ ‘The Disorders of Love,’ ‘The Pilgrim,’ in two parts, and ‘The Princess of Montferrat.’ And I can only express my admiration at the courage of our great-grandmothers, who learned what was unprofitable and not amusing at so vast an outlay of most patient labour.
To one or two modern “beaux” of great celebrity I will now introduce you. Here is a jaunty, impudent, over-dressed gentleman approaching, who will admirably suit our purpose. Pray allow me:—“Gentle Reader, Beau Fielding.” “Beau Fielding, Gentle Reader.”