ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FASHION WRITERS
To the Editor of The Idler.
Dear Sir: Some writers have an unhappy faculty of adopting a superior tone which is very offensive to most readers. Even in a writer of acknowledged excellence this dictatorial style is a blemish, and, moreover, it is an impertinence. Not only does the writer assume to be superior to the majority of his readers, but, by implication, to all the world, since his book is addressed to mankind at large. And if this air of condescension is hard to bear from men of parts, how much more galling it is when we suffer it at the hands of insolent nobodies—writers who seek to hide their obscurity behind the shield of an imposing pseudonym. I have in mind, Sir, that pestiferous crew who mar the pages of our theater programs with their uninvited discourses upon men’s fashions.
It may be that I am confessing to an unmanly weakness when I confess that I invariably peruse that column in my program which is signed Beau Nash, Beau Brummel, or something equally ridiculous; but if it is a weakness, I am convinced that it is one which is shared by nine out of ten men in the audience. I say I am convinced, because, suspecting that I might be alone in it, I took the trouble to observe the men about me upon several occasions, and I always caught them at it at some time during the intermissions. They read it furtively, to be sure, but they read it none the less. Of course, I can not be sure what effect these essays upon sartorial matters have upon others, but I fancy they are affected much as I am, and for my part they distress me exceedingly.
In the first place, I am not overly pleased that some unknown hack writer has assumed to instruct me in such a personal matter as the clothes which I put upon my back, and in the second place, I strongly resent the implication that I am interested in such foppish literature. But, what is worse than all else, these anonymous arbiters of dress are continually putting me out of countenance by criticizing explicitly and in detail the very clothes that I have on! It seems to me that these fellows have a devilish faculty of knowing beforehand just what I shall be wearing every season.
Now, Mr. Idler, you must not suppose that I am one of those silly fellows who aspire to lead the fashion or to play the dandy, for, indeed, I am nothing of the sort. I do not believe there is a man living who more heartily despises those empty-headed creatures who are variously known as fops, dudes and dandies. It has never been my ambition to be the introducer of a new style of neckwear or footgear; indeed, I fear my very indifference to such matters lays me open to the vexation caused by these miserable scribblers who prey upon my peace of mind. Were I in the habit of consulting long and earnestly with my tailor and haberdasher, no doubt I should be fortified with a sound and sure confidence in the appropriateness of my apparel. But the fact is, I leave these things largely to the men who make a business of them, and content myself with choosing what seems to me to be sufficiently modish and yet in good taste.
And yet, Sir, though I am no macaroni, I am not utterly indifferent to my personal appearance. If I am not a fop, neither am I a sloven. I am one of those who have faith in the old saying, In medio tutissimus ibis. I would not be
“The first by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.”