Page:Punch vol 1.djvu/70

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{{sc|A Popular Encyclopædia of the requisites for gentility—a companion to the toilet, the salons, the Queen's Bench, the streets, and the police-stations, has long been felt to be a desideratum by every one aspiring to good breeding. The few works which treat on the subject, have all become as obsolete as "hot cockles" and "crambo." "The geste of King Horne," The "BAΣIΛIKON" of King Jamie, "Peacham's Complete Gentleman," "The Poesye of princelye practice," "Dame Juliana Berners' Book of St. Alban's," and "The Jewel for Gentrie," are now confined to bibliopoles and bookstalls. Even more modern productions have shared the same fate. "The Whole Duty of Man" has long been consigned to the trunk-maker, "Chesterfield's Letters" are now dead letters, and the "Young Man" lights his cigar with his "Best Companion." It is true, that in lieu of these, several works have emanated from the press, adapted to the change of manners, and consequently admirably calculated to supply their places. We need only instance "The Flash Dictionary," "The Book of Etiquette," "A Guide to the Kens and Cribs of London," "The whole Art of Tying the Cravat," and "The Hand-book of Boxing," but it remains for us to remove the disadvantages which attend the acquirement of each of these noble arts and sciences in a detached form.

The possessor of an inquiring and genteel mind has now to wander for his politeness to Patemoster-row; to Pierce Egan, for his knowledge of men and manners; and to Owen Swift, for his knightly accomplishments, and exercises of chivalry.

We undertake to collect and condense these scattered radii into one brilliant focus, so that a gentleman, by reading his "own book," may be made acquainted with the best means of ornamenting his own, or disfiguring a policeman's, person—how to conduct himself at the dinner-table, or at the bar of Bow-street—how to turn a compliment to a lady, or carry on a chaff with a cabman.

These are high and noble objects! A wider field for social elevation cannot well be imagined. Our plan embraces the enlightenment and refinement of every scion of a noble house, and all the junior-clerks in the government offices—from the happy recipient of an allowance of 50l. per month from "the Governor"—to the dashing acceptor of a salary of thirty shillings a week from a highly respectable house in the city—from the gentleman who occupies a suite of apartments in the Clarendon, to the lodger in the three-pair back, in an excessively back street at Somers Town.

With these incentives, we will proceed at once to our great and glorious task, confident that our exertions will be appreciated, and obtain for us an introduction into the best circles.

{{c|PRELUDE.}}

{{sc|We}} trust that our polite readers will commence the perusal of our pages with a pleasure equal to that which we feel in sitting down to Write them; for they call up welcome recollections of those days (we are literary and seedy now!) when our coats emanated from the laboratory of Stultz, our pantaloons from Buckmaster, and our boots from Hohy, whilst our glossy beaver—now, alas! supplanted by a rusty goss—was fabricated by no less a thatcher than the illustrious Moore. They will remind us of our Coryphean conquests at the Opera—our triumphs in Rotten-row—our dinners at Long's and the Clarendon—our nights at Offley's and the watch-house—our glorious runs with the Beaufort hounds, and our exhilirating runs from the Sheriffs' officers—our month's sporting on the heathery moors, and our day rule when rusticating in the Bench!

We are in "the sear and yellow leaf"—there is nothing green about us now! We have mt down our seasoned hunter, and have mounted the winged Pegasus. The brilliant Burgundy and sparkling Hock no longer mantle in our glass; but Barclay's beer—nectar of gods and coalheavers—mixed with hippocrene—the Muses' "cold without"—is at present our only beverage. The grouse are by us undisturbed in their bloomy mountain covert. We are now content to climb Parnassus and our garret stairs. The Albany, that sanctuary of erring bachelors, with its guardian beadle, are to us but memories, for we have become the denizens of a roomy attic (ring the top bell twice), and are only saluted by an Hebe of all-work and our printer's devil!

{{sc|On Dress in General.}}— L'habit fait le moine.—It has been laid down by Brummel, Bulwer, and other great authorities, that "the tailor makes the man;" and he would be the most daring of sceptics who would endeavour to controvert this axiom. Your first duty, therefore, is to place yourself in the hands of some distinguished schneider, and from him take out your patent of gentility—for a man with an "elegant coat" to his back is like a bill at sight endorsed with a good name; whilst a seedy, or ill-cut garment, resembles a protested note of hand labelled effects." It will also be necessary for you to consult "The Monthly Book of Fashions," and to imitate, as closely as possible, those elegant and artistical productions of the gifted burin which show to perfection, "What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties!" &c.—You must not consult your own ease and taste (if you have any), for nothing is so vulgar as to suit your convenience in these matters, as you should remember that you dress to please others, and not yourself. We have heard of some eccentric individuals connected with noble families, who have departed from this rule; but they invariably paid the penalty of their rashness, being frequently mistaken for men of intellect; and it should not be forgotten, that any exercise of the mind is a species of labour utterly incompatible with the perfect man of fashion.

The confiding characters of tailors being generally aknowledged, it is almost needless to state, that the faintest indication of seediness will be fatal to your reputation; and as a presentation at the Insolvent Court is equally fashionable with that of St. James, any squeamishness respecting your inability to pay, could only be looked upon as a want of moral courage upon your part, and

{{image missing}} {{c|UTTERLY UNWORTHY OF A GENTLEMAN.}}

[The subject of dress in particular will form the subject of our next chapter.]

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{{c|{{larger|IF I HAD A THOUSAND A-YEAR:}}

{{asc|A Bachelor's Lyric.}}}}

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{{block center| {{sc|If}} I had a thousand a-year,
 * (How my heart at the bright vision glows!)

I should never be crusty or queer,
 * But all would be coleur de rose.

I'd pay all my debts, though outrè,
 * And of duns and embarrassments clear,

Life would pass like a bright summer day,
 * If I had a thousand a-year.

I'd have such a spicy turn-out,
 * And a horse of such mettle and breed—

Whose points not a jockey should doubt,
 * When I put him at top of his speed.

On the foot-board, behind me to swing,
 * A tiger so small should appear,

All the nobs should protest {{" '}}twas the thing!"
 * If I had a thousand a-year.

A villa I'd have near the Park,
 * From Town just an appetite-ride;

With fairy-like grounds, and a bark
 * O'er its miniature waters to glide.

There oft, 'neath the pale twilight star.,
 * Or the moonliglit unruffled and clear,

My meerchaum I'd smoke, or cigar,
 * If I had a thousand a-year.

I'd have pictures and statues, with taste—
 * Such as ladies unblushing might view—

In my drawing and dining-rooms placed,
 * With many a gem of vertû.

My study should be an affair
 * The heart of a book-worm to cheer—

All compact, with its easy spring chair,
 * If I had a thousand a-year.

A cellar I'd have quite complete
 * With wines, so rèchèrche, well stored;

And jovial guests often should meet
 * Round my social and well-garnished board.

But I would have a favourite few,
 * To my heart and my friendship more dear;

And I'd marry—I musn't tell who—
 * If I had a thousand a-year.

With comforts so many, what more
 * Could I ask of kind fortune to grant?

Humph! a few olive branches— say four—
 * As pets for my old maiden aunt.

Then, with health, there'd be nought to append,
 * To perfect my happiness here;

For the utile et dulce would blend,
 * If I had a thousand a-year. }} {{block center|{{smallrefs}}}}