Nothing is to be made out of this inquiry, and after considering the matter with great gravity, we are driven to the conclusion that Dandyism is like a bad cold, caught nobody knows how, or when, or where, or why. Some may be afflicted because they have the pores of vanity open—others who sit in the draught of affectation, may suddenly be seized by a fashionable influenza—going suddenly from the warm room of common sense into the cold air of ostentation, may give the “grippe” to some—but with many it is chronic, having been acquired in childhood when their dear mammas tricked them out in fantastic velvets and fine caps, with feathers, making them juvenile dandies among the little boys of their neighborhood.
But all this may be tiresome to the reader who desires to plunge at once in the middle of the subject. We must really get on with this important theme, and responding categorically to the inquiry, “how dandies are made?” respond: by eight honest mechanics, to wit, the tailor, hatter, boot-maker, linen-draper, haberdasher, glover, hosier and jeweler. Take away the articles fabricated by these men, what is he but a helpless mortal, a mere man and terribly unfashionable? We might once have added to the list of dandy manufacturers the barber—but our modern exquisites have so little to do with that artist that the claims of Figaro to the distinction would be strongly controverted.
An inspection of a buck in this month of February, anno domini eighteen hundred and fifty-two, will convey to the mind of the spectator ideas of a pair of very thin legs, surmounted by a very short specimen of an overcoat, with monstrous buttons and wide sleeves—a cravat with a bow about six inches wide and three inches broad, with fringes at the ends—a standing shirt collar, running up to a very sharp point—something like a face, covered with hair over what, in Christians, are the chin, cheek and upper-lip—and a hat thereon. Simile fails in ability to convey any adequate notion of this figure. Two pipes, bowl downward and stems upward, might give an idea of the lower extremity of the dandy. We will carry out the nicotian metaphor by placing on the upper portions of the stems a paper of “Mrs. Miller’s best”—the short-cut, oozing from the top of the torn paper, will do very well for the hair on the face—a tobacco-box placed on the whole, will give some idea of a figure, which, if greatly magnified, would in the outline much resemble a modern fop.
The clothing of an exquisite is a work of time and science. We can imagine how much of the labor is done. But there are two subjects, in the making of a fop, that have long been considered puzzles. One of these questions is—how does he manage to tie those huge bows in his cravat, which stand out just below his chin, giving him thereabout the appearance of a cherubim, all head and wings? What a work of fixing must there be before he gets the knot exactly right! What gazing into the mirror—what pulling of ends—what twisting of folds—what tying and untying! Every thing must be just so. There must be no wrinkles—all must be smooth and “ship-shape,” or the dandy so remiss upon this subject would be avoided forever by his associates. It has been asserted that a smart exquisite is able to tie his cravat in half an hour, but the general average of time is believed to be an hour and a half. There is a melancholy instance on record, of a fop who once took three hours to fix the bow of his cravat. The sad occurrence took place on what should have been his wedding-day. He commenced the work at seven o’clock in the morning and had “a nice knot” at ten. Unfortunately, the hour of the wedding was fixed at nine. The anxious intended wailed impatiently at the altar for her expected lord, for half an hour, and then concluding that he meant to insult her, went away in a huff, so that the unfortunate dandy, by being too particular as to tying a nice knot, lost the opportunity of fastening a nicer knot, and worse still, a bride “worth a hundred thousand.”
This inquiry into the time occupied at the cravat, though very interesting, must yield in importance to another, to wit:—How do dandies get into their boots?
In former years this puzzling topic could not have arisen. Loose trowsers gave plenty of room to boots which were wide in the legs. There was no difficulty in getting heels into them, and though there might have been some screwing and stamping, it was certain that eventually the articles would be drawn on the feet. Then, too, the tightness was only in the foot part of the boot. It required considerable muscular exertion to coax the five toes into the close prison designed for them, but by pulling one moment, working the foot the next, and then screwing the face into ugly contortions, considerable progress was usually effected. The power of the human countenance over upper leather is one of those extraordinary psychological facts which dabblers in animal magnetism have failed in accounting for satisfactorily. Yet that it does exist, is vouched for by all experience. Tight boots have always been susceptible to this influence. History herself cannot point to an instance where a new leathern foot-envelope was drawn on the walker with a countenance “calm as a summer’s morning.” It is notorious that no boot of character ever yielded until it saw, from the knitting of the eyebrows, the puckering of lips, and the distortion of muscles, that the putter-on was in absolute earnest. And how stubbornly the leather yields when it comes under the influence—how it relaxes with stiff dissatisfaction, and at last creeps over the part assigned, with an air of unwrinkled disgust. The philosophy of this subject is strange, and should be investigated by some modern Mesmer of sole and upper leather.
But really this is a digression, which the importance of the correlative subject has drawn us into. “Let us return to our—mutton.” (We might have said our veal, were it not that the idea of dandies’ legs and calves are incongruous and unnatural.) It is an inflexible rule in the making up of an exquisite, that there shall be no calves to his legs. The mere osteological peculiarities of that part of the frame are to be preserved, and the epidermis must clasp the attenuated limb, without embracing a superfluity of muscle similar to that which we see in the lower limbs of the statues of Hercules. Hence it follows that the heel of a true dandy is expected to protrude an inch at least beyond what, under happier circumstances, would be the calf of his leg. There is really no difference between the formation of the lower pedalities of a pure dandy, and those of a pure Ethiopian. In this anatomical fact lies the great difficulty in the way of modern “squirts.” The heel unfortunately requires a greater opening at the top of the boot than can be filled up by the upper part of the leg when the article is upon the foot. This is a very distressing difficulty. The pantaloons are expected to hug the leg as tightly as possible, so that the thinness of the “trotters” may be revealed in all their natural beauty. But an obstacle exists in the shape of an inch or two of superfluous leather at the top of the boot, which will have a tendency to give the limb an appearance of greater circumference than nature or fashion permits. This trouble is really of disgusting importance. How do the dandies manage, then, to produce those thin legs, the slightness of which is so strikingly graceful? The world has long wondered over this subject, and it was not until lately that a true philosopher revealed the mystery. He asserts that after fops get into boots and unmentionables, they turn up the latter until they get a fair purchase on the leather inconveniencies. Then, with broad bandages they swathe their legs and the upper part of their boots quite carefully, until the superfluous leather is bound tightly down, and there is a comparatively smooth surface all the way down the limb. After having got his trowsers pulled down, the fop is ready for a promenade upon Chestnut street, or a conquest in a drawing-room. In the former exercise he gets along as well as can be expected, being very careful in his mincing steps lest an unlucky rip should damage the integrity of his apparel. In the latter situation he is often put to great inconvenience. When sitting down, the unwhisperables are, by the disposition of his body, drawn a considerable distance above the ankle. To get them down again is a matter which no thorough dandy can accomplish. If he were to bend to do it, the consequence would be disastrous. He therefore takes his leave of the ladies with pantaloons half-way up to the knee, and, stopping in the entry, exclaims—“Wait-ah! wait-ah! hea-ah, fell-ah, assist me! Come hea-ah and pull down my pants! Really, ah, they-ah have risen until they are quite uncomfortable.”
Thus much for the present division of our task, from which we draw the deduction that every exquisite has his troubles like plainer people. One day he may be in agonies because his cravat is not decently tied. On another he may be in torture because, notwithstanding all his efforts, his legs seem thick. These and other ills are occasional misfortunes. It is not considered by him that although these griefs come once in a while, he is at all times in manners a puppy, and in mental strength only a ninny.