The assertion made by the ancient sage Socrates, that “a dandy is like a jackass, because he wears his Sunday-coat every day,” would scarcely fit a modern exquisite, whose diurnal attire varies with each revolution of the sun. The apothegm of Plato, that “a monkey owes his distinction to his tail and a fop to his tailor,” is not thoroughly apt, because the human ape owes something (generally a considerable sum) to his hatter and boot-maker. The well-known assertion of Virgil, “in squirtibus nihil sed aquæ lactissimus”—in squirts you will find nothing but milk and water—has about it the usual license taken by poets, inasmuch as if we examine our squirts, they will be pronounced empty. Bacon’s celebrated maxim in his Novum Organum, that “what are considered petty matters are often of importance, but there is no importance in a petit maître,” will probably be acquiesced in by common people, though those implicated by the serious pun may think it uncommonly impudent. Newton’s position taken in the Principia, that “in apples and men there is much specific gravity, but mushrooms and dandies are of trifling lightness,” may be disputed by the latter, who with some show might liken their weight to that of “some pumpkins.” Euclid’s celebrated rule, “a plane superficies is every where flat, e.g. a dandy who is plainly superficial is a flat every where,” has long been a fixture in geometrical lore, which may be doubted, though dangerous to dissent from. We, therefore, seek in vain in the lessons of ancient science and wisdom for competent authority to settle the question—“What is a dandy?” Hamlet, who being the “glass of fashion and the mould of form,” was of course a fop, did on one occasion confess that himself and some other leaders of the ton at that time, yclept Horatio and Marcellus, were “fools of nature,” and horribly shook their dispositions “with thoughts beyond the reaches of their souls.” His candid admission that exquisites are natural fools—“rather weak in the upper story,” and unable to stand the overpowering weight of grave thought—has long been admired as a fine picture of the mental condition of the dandies when something was “rotten in the state of Denmark.” But even this idea of the immortal bard will scarcely assimilate to a proper notion of our modern bucks, because the foppery natural to a Hamlet would not be similar to that of a large City.
We therefore rummage the books with little success in search for authorities upon this subject. We are constrained to a belief that Linnæus has not classified the genera or Buffon discriminated the species. If exquisites, by reason of their sappiness, are vegetable, the Swedish naturalist has passed over the variety—if they are animals, the Frenchman has not given them a proper place among the mammalia. The history, habits and peculiarities of these mandrakes, these “forked radishes,” these nondescripts, who afflict the south side of Chestnut street, Philadelphia, or the west side of Broadway, New York, has not yet been written, but the subject has latterly assumed an importance which can be no longer disregarded. If the comic dissector, with scalpel in hand, were to desire the fop for a subject, he would have to wait until he was defunct, but the dandy never dies; he is a living example of the verity of the adage, true whenever made—“the fools are not all dead yet”—and it is therefore impossible to imagine the time when there will not be a dandy. We cannot consequently dissect. We may apply the stethoscope to the chest of the exquisite; we may feel his weak pulse, or examine his silly tongue. So may we make our diagnosis, and though we cannot “minister to a mind diseased,” we may, at least, “hold the mirror up to nature,” for the benefit of all gazers. Therefore, in pursuance of the task, come we to our first great inquiry:
HOW ARE DANDIES MADE?
This is a grave question, for fops are like veal pies—in the opinion of the waggish Weller—the crust may be rather respectable, but the making up of the interior is “werry duberous.” Exquisites at this present writing, are a conglomeration of lanky legs, hairy heads and creamy countenances. Such are their natural peculiarities. But it is evident that in considering this subject, the great topic of inquiry is, What is a dandy sartorially? Here description will proclaim him to be a being stuck into tight trowsers, ditto coat and vest, ditto boots, not so much ditto overcoat, and crowned with a cylindrical structure of felt, which is called a hat. Mentally the subject of dandyism offers little field for remark, because the weakness which distinguishes the unfortunate class of our fellow citizens now under consideration, is caused by natural imbecility and want of common sense.
It is a topic of inquiry worthy of the most acute philosophical research whether buckishness is a natural or acquired folly. Some who have argued upon the matter have taken the ground, that all such vanities are the consequence of the great fall, and that as the expulsion from Eden was followed by the assumption of apparel, good Mother Eve was tempted and overcome by the fascinations of dress. For support of this view of the subject it may be urged, that with the fall came dress, with dress came fashion, and with fashion came the Dandy. Others suggest that such an argument as this, going back beyond the flood, is far-fetched, and they profess to be able to assign a much better cause for dandyism. According to these philosophers every fop has “a soft place in his head,” which has been very beautifully described by the poet as
“The greenest spot
In Memory’s waste.”
They affirm that this weak portion of a skull otherwise thick, is the chosen place of the “organ of dandyism,” and controls the habits of its possessors. If this were so, we might pardon a failing which cannot be remedied, but, with Combe in our hands, we in vain run over the head to find this organ, which is certainly not a hand-organ. None of the phrenological authorities—it is a striking fact—give the locality of this bump.
No; “the milk of human kindness” which was “poured into Gall,” forbade him from making known the situation of the protuberance, and Fowler unfairly dodges the question.