XXXVIII
OLD-FASHIONED SNOBS
I suppose there never was a time in the history of human society without snobs—that is, without young men of fashion who wished to be thought prominent members of the smart set. The slang of various epochs has called them macaronies, dandies, dudes, toffs, swells—but under various appellations the creature is the same, with the same habits. There are certain persons who cultivate superficial elegancies and are never caught in an informal attitude or off their guard. Lowell said that if N. P. Willis had lived in the Garden of Eden he would have attracted attention by the way he wore his skin.
About three centuries ago, in the spacious times of Queen Elizabeth, as we learn from the plays of Shakespeare and of his contemporaries, and from a satirical guide-book written by Thomas Dekker, the typical young snob in London got through an average day in the following manner:
He rose at noon. Late rising has always been an essential feature of snobbery; because if one gets up early, it proves that one has to earn one’s living, and to support oneself is incompatible with swelldom. If any one thinks that the idea of Walter Camp’s setting-up exercise is new, let me remind him that the Elizabethan dandy, invariably after rising, took a whole series of gymnastic exercises while stark naked. The object of this was twofold: he had to keep in fair physical condition, and these exercises helped to take out of his system the invariable “hangover.”
He then dressed with the utmost care, and here we must remember an essential difference between the mental attitude of Elizabethans and that of young men of today. The late Professor Moulton said that the chief characteristic of our age was anticonspicuousness. And this is quite true. Women wear short skirts not to attract attention, but to avoid it. We follow fashions to escape notoriety. But in Elizabethan times exactly the contrary was true.
The most democratic garment in the world today is men’s evening dress. After six o’clock, in any locality in the so-called civilised world, a man is in style with the black dinner jacket or swallow-tail. Time and again the tailors have fought this, doing their best to persuade men to wear something in colour, or at all events something more individual. But the men thus far have succeeded in preserving economical uniformity.
Now in Elizabethan times the garments of men were as gorgeous as the feathers of male birds. A group of men talking together was a “riot of colour.” A man wore soft leather boots, narrow at the ankle, and with immense, colored flaring tops. His knee breeches were tight-fitting silk or satin. His jacket was a slashed doublet, brilliant in colour; at the neck was an enormous white ruff, which must have kept the laundries busy; imagine eating soup over that ruff! Over the doublet he wore a short velvet cloak, with a high collar. The hat was as elaborate in design as the old style woman’s Easter bonnet, very broad, with an audacious feather. And, of course, he invariably carried a sword, with jewelled hilt.
In this array our young swell walked at ease in the centre aisle of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the favourite place for fashionable display. His tailor sometimes accompanied him like a detective and, in response to a signal, took notes of some new and particularly splendid costume. The young man would salute noblemen and aristocrats in a loud voice, calling them, if he dared, by their first name, so as to give the impression of intimacy; for it was essential then, as now, to be with the “right crowd.” In stentorian tones he would make an appointment for a two o’clock luncheon at an expensive eating house. After luncheon, the toothpick was prominently displayed while on promenade.
In contrast to the modern soldier, who never speaks of his war experiences, the young Elizabethan, if he had fought in the Low Countries or elsewhere, bragged noisily about it in all public places. If he were a poet, he behaved like a tenth-rate poet in Paris today. He entered a restaurant with a solemn, preoccupied air, and, in taking his glove from his pocket, purposely let fall a manuscript. Some one would pick it up and he would remark that it was only a poem he had dashed off an hour ago; but he would manage the conversation so that he would be asked to read it aloud.
Tobacco was “coming in” then, and every young swell must be able to smoke in public without becoming sick. They had their favourite pipes and elaborate silver pouches; they talked about the different brands of tobacco like a professional, and it was a great accomplishment to blow rings.