[Illustration:

  “Come along, my r-r-r-r-rummy cove; come along! how are you? how d’ye
    do? here we are my bricksywicksywicksy!!!”
]


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                          THE NATURAL HISTORY

                                   OF

                               THE GENT.

[Illustration]


                            BY ALBERT SMITH.



                                LONDON:

                     DAVID BOGUE, 86 FLEET STREET.

                              MDCCCXLVII.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                LONDON:

           VIZETELLY BROTHERS AND CO. PRINTERS AND ENGRAVERS,

                   PETERBOROUGH COURT, FLEET STREET.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                PREFACE.


IN the Sunday newspapers of May 24, of the past year, 1846, appeared the
following paragraph:—


                              MARYLEBONE.

    A “GENT.”—A respectable-looking man, named James Dickenson, was
    charged by Brooks, 169 S, who said, “Please your worship, at two
    o’clock yesterday morning (Monday), I found this ‘gent’ drunk in
    Park Road, and took him into custody.”

    _Mr. Rawlinson_: Who do you say you found drunk?

    _Constable_: This “gent,” your worship.

    _Mr. Rawlinson_: What do you mean by “gent?” There is no such
    word in our language. I hold a man who is called a “gent” to be
    the greatest blackguard there is. (To the prisoner): What do you
    say to this? I hope you are not a “gent.”

    _Prisoner_: I am not, sir, and I trust that I know the
    distinction between a “gent” and a “gentleman.”

    _Mr. Rawlinson_: I dare say you do, sir, and I look upon the
    word “gent” as one of the most blackguard expressions that can
    be used.

    The prisoner was fined 5s., which he directly paid.


We were exceedingly delighted when we read this police report. We had
laboured, for three or four years, to bring the race of Gents into
universal contempt; and we at last found that an intelligent and
respected London magistrate had publicly stated, from the bench, his
opinion of the miserable class in question; and that it exactly
coincided with our own. But fearing—from seeing the odious word still
starting up in shops, ticketed to wild articles of dress, to be
hereafter alluded to, as well as hearing it every now and then applied
by one “party” to another of his acquaintance—that the species was not
yet extinct; fearing this, in spite of our direct attacks in _Punch_ and
_Bentley’s Miscellany_, and our side-wind blows through the medium of
our esteemed friend John Parry, certain burlesques at the Lyceum, and
various other channels—we determined upon reconsidering all we had ever
propounded on the subject, and publishing it in the form now presented
to the reader, that all might clearly see who the Gents were, and shun
them accordingly.

And so we leave our little book in your hands, published at a price, as
a prospectus always says, “that will bring it within the reach of all
classes.” And we request your co-operation towards the great end of
putting Gents out altogether. For they form an offensive body, of more
importance than you would at first conceive; and both public and private
society will be much benefited by their extinction.

[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                          THE NATURAL HISTORY

                                   OF

                               THE GENT.




                               CHAPTER I.

                      WHAT THE GENT IS GENERALLY.


THE species of the human race, to the consideration of which we are
about to draw the attention of the reader, is of all others the most
unbearable, principally from an assumption of style about him—a futile
aping of superiority that inspires us with feelings of mingled contempt
and amusement, when we contemplate his ridiculous pretensions to be
considered “the thing.”

The Gent is of comparatively late creation. He has sprung from the
original rude untutored man by combinations of chance and cultivation,
in the same manner as the later varieties of fancy pippins have been
produced by the devices of artful market-gardeners, from the original
stock wild crab of the hedges. The fashion which Gents have of
occasionally addressing one another as “my pippin” favours this analogy:
and when they use this figure of speech, they pronounce it as
follows,—placing great stress on the first letter, and then waiting
awhile for the rest,—“Ullo, my P—ippin!”

After much diligent investigation, we find no mention made of the Gent
in the writings of authors who flourished antecedent to the last ten
years.

In the older works we meet with “_bucks_” and “_gay blades_” and
“_pretty fellows_;” and later with “_men upon town_,” “_swells_” and
“_downy ones_,” or “_knowing coves_:” but the pure Gent comes not under
any of these orders. He was not known in these times. He is scarcely
understood now so universally as we could wish; but we trust that his
real character will, before long, be properly appreciated. He is
evidently the result of a variety of our present condition of
society—that constant wearing struggle to appear something more than we
in reality are, which now characterizes every body, both in their public
and private phases.

Our attention was first called to the Gents in the following manner:—

We were in the habit of occasionally coming into contact with certain
individuals, who when they spoke of their acquaintances were accustomed
to say “I know a Gent,” or, “A Gent told me.” Never by any good luck did
we hear them speak of Gentlemen. But it occurred that we chanced, on
future occasions, to see one or two of the Gents above alluded to, and
then we understood what they were.

[Illustration]

The first Gent we ever saw, we encountered on the roof of an omnibus,
with his hat a little on one side, and a staring shawl round his neck.
He was also smoking a cigar, as he sat next to the driver, in order that
he might reap the benefit of his anecdotes and remarks concerning the
horses and vehicle, to which the Gent replied at intervals, “Ah,” and
“Yes,” and “I should say not,” and “Just so,” with other similar phrases
used to fill up unmeaning dialogue. We heard him speak of “a Party he
knew,” and he was very much interested at hearing that the off-horse
worked “in the fust bus as ever Shillibeer started, and was took from
the Angel to be put on the Elephant.” He was also informed of the
singular speculation in which “the guvner give a fippun note for that
little mare, and was offered eight sovrins for her within a week, though
she was a reg’lar bag o’ bones;” upon which the Gent observed that “very
often those sort of horses were the best.” Having delivered himself of
which opinion, he rolled his cigar about in his mouth, gave a whiff in
our face, and then removed it between his middle and ring-finger, to
offer it to another Gent on the roof, who begged the favour of a light.

[Illustration]

The next Gent we met was in the street. He wore large check trowsers of
the true light comedian pattern, which appeared to have been made
expressly for Mr. Walter Lacy, or Mr. Wright: and he had on a short odd
coat; such a one as that in which Mr. Buckstone might be expected to go
to a ball. He carried a little stick of no earthly use, with a horse’s
silver hoof on the top of it, which he kept to his lips always; and he
also patronised the staring shawl and cigar; and he evidently imagined
that he was “rather the Stilton than otherwise”—“_Stilton_” or
“_cheese_” being terms by which Gents imply style or fashion. He was
pursuing a pretty girl of modest deportment, who was possibly going
home—for it was evening, when Gents and cheap umbrellas chiefly
flourish—after her hard day’s toil at a bonnet-shop. The Gent had not
the sense to see that his advances were repulsed with scorn and
indignation. He imagined that by addressing his coarse annoying
gallantry to an unprotected girl, he was acting as if he was “upon
town,” “a fast man,” “up to a thing or two,” or some other such epithet,
which it is the ambition of the Gent to get attached to his name.

[Illustration]

We met the next Gent in the boxes at one of the theatres, whither he had
come in the full-dress of a light blue stock, and cleaned white gloves
re-dirtied. We knew they had been cleaned; they exhaled a faint camphine
odour, as he put his hand on the brass rail and leant over us, and there
was none of that sharpness of outline in their dirt which new gloves
evince: it was denser, cloudier, more universal; and the knuckles and
nails were remarkably so. This Gent also had a little stick. He lighted
a cigar at the lobby-lamp on leaving the house, and pulled a staring
shawl out of his hat as he whistled an air from one of the burlesques.
He went over to the Albion, the room of which was quite full; and after
standing in the centre for a few seconds—tapping his teeth with his
stick, whilst his left hand was thrust into the hinder pocket of his
coat, dragged round to his hip—apparently disgusted at not creating any
sensation, he turned round on his heel, and crossing Covent Garden,
ultimately dived into Evans’s.

Then we thought that the Gents must be a race by themselves, which
social naturalists had overlooked, deserving some attention; and we
determined to study their habits, and allot to them a certain position
which at that time they did not appear to have.

[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER II.

                OF THE MANNER BY WHICH GENTS ARE KNOWN.


EXPERIENCE proves that pictures are the best media for conveying
information at the outset of tuition. Hence, in the study of Natural
History, for instance, tyros learn the animals with their letters: their
hornbooks have zoological alphabets, coloured in tints more or less
eccentric; and, although led away by the representations, they sometimes
read “A for donkey, B for great cow, C for poor puss,” yet, on the
whole, the way is a good one.

So, we will teach those not yet well up in the manner, by pictures, how
they may know the Gents.

The finest specimens may be seen in the coloured “Fashions,” with which
certain comically-disposed tailors adorn their windows. In these
presumed representations of prevalent style, some favourite west-end
locality is taken for the background; and, in front, are many Gents, in
such attitudes as may display their figures and little boots to the best
advantage. Some are supposed to be arrayed for an evening party, in
green dress-coats and puce tights. Some, again, are represented as
sportsmen, with pinched-in waists, that the shock of the first leap, or
the kick of the first shot, would knock in half; and others are
promenade Gents, in frock coats and corded trowsers, bowing to one
another with much grace, or leading little Gents by the hand, who look
like animated daguerreotypes of themselves. Well, then, these are Gents,
_pur sang_. Observe, as the showman says, observe their
fashionably-shaped hats, their Lilliputian boots, their tiny gloves.
There is no deception. Observe that all their positions are evidently
the result of much study; and that the greater part of them have one arm
elevated, and the palm open, with the air of a conjurer when he
says,—“You will perceive I have nothing in my hand.”

[Illustration]

Of the same family as these Gents, are the fashionable loungers in
pantomimes, who walk about with the distinguished females in the scanty
_visites_ of pink glazed calico, trimmed with ermine; and the lovers in
the blue coats and white trowsers on the sixpenny valentines, who direct
the attention of the adored one to the distant village church.

[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER III.

           OF THE CHIEF OUTWARD CHARACTERISTICS OF THE GENT.


ONE has only to look into the advertisements of cheap tailors, and the
windows of ticketed shops, to form a very good notion of the other
principal marks by which the Gent may be distinguished.

It should be borne in mind, that the main object of the Gent is to
assume a position which he conceives to be superior to his own.

Now this, he fancies, is in a great measure accomplished by
out-of-the-way clothes—a mark of superiority which has the advantage of
requiring but a small outlay of intellect; and cunning manufacturers
invent things on purpose to suit this taste, as the men of Manchester
export gay-coloured, large-figured patterns for the negroes.

For him the cheap Tailor announces the “Gent’s Vest”—which is the Hebrew
for “Snob’s Waistcoat”—as patronised by the nobility. To catch his eye
alone, are the representations of men of _ton_ put at the side of the
advertisements; and, for his inspection, do the dummies stand at the
doors of the shops, invested in the splendour of an entire suit, with an
impossible waist, “made to measure for the same terms.”

And we may observe that the Gents usually speak of their get-up as _the
ticket_—the term possibly being used in allusion to the badge which
distinguished their various articles of dress when exposed for sale.
And, in writing these, the leaning of the Gents towards distinguished
associations is very evident. A great coat must be a “Chesterfield,” a
“Taglioni,” or a “Codrington;” a little rag of coloured silk for the
neck is called a “Byron Tie;” and so on. If the things are not dignified
by these terms, the Gent does not think much of them.

To his taste does the ready-made Shoemaker appeal in the short fancy
_Alberts_, ticketed “The Fashion.” If you are accustomed to derive a
little gratuitous amusement from shop windows, as you go along the
streets, you will see in them the funniest things, meant for the Gents,
that it is possible to conceive. The most favourite style of _chaussure_
is a species of cloth-boot, with a shiny-leather toe, and a close row of
little mother-of-pearl shirt-buttons down the front; not for any
purpose, for they are simply sewn on, the real method of fastening on
the brodequin being by the humble lace and tag of domestic life, at the
side.

[Illustration]

But it is with the Haberdashers that the toilet of the Gents comes out
strongest.

You will see “Gents’ Dress Kid” ticketed in the window. Be ye sure that
they are large sized, awkwardly cut, yellow kid gloves, at
one-and-sixpence. The tint is evidently a weakness with the Gents, who
think them dashing, and say they come from _Hoobegongs_. But the
merchants, lacking discrimination, believe that the predisposition is
general. We will wager a dozen pairs of them that you never went into
one of these establishments, and simply and decidedly demanded a pair of
white kid gloves, but you were immediately asked “if you would not
prefer straw-coloured?”

And then the stocks—what marvellous cravats they form! Blue always the
favourite colour—blue, with gold sprigs! blue, with a crimson floss-silk
flower! blue Joinvilles, with rainbow ends! And, if they are black and
long, they are fashioned into quaint conceits: Frills of black satin
down the front, or bands of the same fabric looking like an imitation of
crimped skate; or studs of jet made like buttons, as if the Gent wore a
cheap, black satin shirt, and that was where it fastened. And the white
stocks are more fanciful still. They are not very popular in their
simple form; for the Gents feel that they cannot help looking like
waiters in them; and so a little illegitimate finery is necessary. Hence
they have lace ends, like the stamped papers from the top of _bon-bon_
and French plum boxes. And the effect in society is very fine.

[Illustration]

The Jewellers consult the Gents, and for them manufacture various
dashing articles in electro-gold. Some of the ornaments for the cravat
are like large white currants, with gilt eels twisting round them; and
others like blanket-pins with water on the brain. We have also seen some
sporting Gents—of whom we shall hereafter speak—with mosaic gold heads
of horses and foxes stuck in their stocks. And they love rings in
profusion, which we have seen them at times wear outside their gloves.
But this, perhaps, was an advantage, as Gents are accustomed, in
general, to wear their hands large and red, with flattened ends to the
fingers.

[Illustration]

It is for the Gents to buy, that the print-sellers put forward those
dreary pictures of the _Pets of the Ballet_; consisting chiefly of
chubby young persons, in short petticoats and ungraceful attitudes, like
nothing ever seen on the stage anywhere; and coloured lithographs of
housemaids cleaning steps; and chambermaids with flat candlesticks in
their hands; and women with large black dots of eyes and heavy ringlets,
trying on shoes. One was very popular a little time ago. It represented
a young lady something between a hairdresser’s dummy and a barmaid, with
a man’s coat and hat on over her own dress. She was looking through an
eye-glass at the top of a whip, and underneath was written
“_damme!_”—why, or wherefore, or in what relation to the singular mode
of toilet she has adopted, or what the word itself meant in the
abstract, we never could make out. But the Gents seemed to know all
about it, and bought the picture furiously.

By the tokens above mentioned—including always the staring shawl and the
_al fresco_ cigar—you may know the Gent when you see him, even if you
met him on the top of Mont Blanc—a place, however, where you are not
very likely to encounter him. He prefers Windmill Hill.

[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER IV.

                      OF THE GENT AT THE THEATRE.


WHEN the Promenade Concerts usurped the place of the regular Drama at
our theatres, and Kœnig and Musard occupied the places of Kean and
Macready—when Juliet was neglected for Jullien, Prospero for Prospère,
and Viola for the violins, the Gent was exceedingly gratified thereby.
The Promenade became his Paradise; and he used to walk round and round,
keeping his face towards the audience (admiring the young ladies in the
dress tier), with the pertinacity of the grand banners in stage
processions; which, painted only on one side, appear to be endowed with
some heliotropic principle, that causes their emblazoned surfaces to
revolve always on the same plane with the footlights. But, whilst the
Gent conceived that he was here “doing it—rather,” in the railway
trowsers and dazzling stock, he totally forgot that the true _flaneur_
would appear in something like evening costume, although he might not
altogether adopt the extreme _rigueur_.

[Illustration]

We were rather inquieted as to what the Gents would do when these
concerts closed. We made great search, and found at length that the
majority emigrated to the musical taverns, where they contrived to get
through the evening under the combined influence of Bellini, bottled
beer, and brandy-and-water; deriving additional excitement from the
novelty of seeing Somnambula performed through a haze of tobacco-smoke.

[Illustration]

But the theatre proper, is a favourite resort of the Gent, and
half-price to the boxes his usual plan of patronising it; more
especially when there is a ballet. Of the different parts of the house
he prefers the slips. If you are seated opposite, you will see him come
in about nine o’clock, and, leaving the panel door open, he stands on
the seat, with his hands in his pockets, his stick under his arm, and
thus makes his observations. Presently getting disgusted at the want of
respect shown to him by an old gentleman in front, who is watching the
performance most intently, with his head reclining on his arms, which
are again supported by the rail, and who requests that he will have the
goodness to shut the door, the Gent walks grandly away, and goes round
to the other side, evidently conceiving that his dignity has been hurt.
Here the same process of observation is repeated; and, if the Gent sees
a pretty girl in a private box, he stares unflinchingly at her, until he
thinks he has made an impression. And this is a strange lunatic notion
with Gents of every degree: they believe they have powers to fascinate
every female upon whom they cast their eyes, never thinking of the utter
contempt always excited by such obtrusiveness on the part of an entire
stranger.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER V.

               OF THE GENT, AFTER THE PLAY, AT A TAVERN.


BY the following signs may the Gent at this period be known: He walketh
six abreast under the Piazza, singing a negro air in chorus; and,
perchance, danceth a lively measure to the _refrain_, until he arriveth
at the entrance of Evans’s Grand Hotel. He descendeth the stairs, and,
on entering the room, he goeth to the upper end thereof; and, having
greeted the singers with a wink, calleth out “Charles!” No response
being made by the waiter, he rappeth with his stick upon the table,
until the peppercastor falleth on the floor; for which unseemly conduct
Evans mildly reproveth him. He taketh a sight at Evans in return, when
he can do so unobserved, and saith that he liketh him not so well as
Rhodes: and then he calleth “Henry!” Being served with the rabbit of
Wales, he saith to the funny singer,—“How are you, old feller!” and
presseth him to partake of his grog. He proffereth a prayer that the
funny singer will oblige him with a particular song. The funny singer
complieth; and the Gent singeth the chorus, prolonging it far beyond the
proper length, to the indignation of Evans. At its conclusion, his
animal spirits and enthusiastic approbation impel him to call
out—“Bravo, Rouse!” which promoteth political dissension amongst the
guests. Evans telleth him “that he cannot have the harmony of the room
disturbed by one individual”—a sentiment which the Gent applaudeth
lustily, and ordereth some champagne, which he drinketh, with the
singers, from a tankard. The anger of Evans is in a measure appeased.
The Gent joineth in a glee at the wrong time; but turneth away wrath by
buying a copy of it when finished. He ordereth more champagne, and
believeth that he is taken by the room for a “Lord about town.” He saith
he hath a pony that he will back against every other to do every thing.
He talketh of actresses, and winketh mysteriously. He telleth the funny
singer that if he will come and see him at his little place in the city,
he will put him up to a thing or two. At last he getteth troublesome,
and is coaxed away by his companions. The next morning he saith what a
spree he had, and that he sat opposite to an officer who knew one of the
ballet, and had spoken to her once behind the scenes; and so he thinketh
that he hath a link with the great world. But yet, upon reflection, he
hath not.

[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VI.

                      OF THE GENT IN THE OPEN AIR.


THE most popular lounging thoroughfares of the west-end, such as Regent
Street, the Burlington Arcade, Bond Street, or Piccadilly, are not those
in which the Gents are to be often encountered in the day-time. The
majority of them have evidently occupations, which keep them somewhere
until four or five o’clock, so that they never come out in their full
force until dusk, except on holidays; and then the short steamboats are
the best places to find them. In fine weather, they discard the staring
shawl for a blue handkerchief, with white spots; and then they provide
themselves with a cigar (the cigar again!), a bottle of stout, and a
Sunday paper, and, from the edge of the paddle-box, or from the top of
the cabin, defy the world. You can find out their locality by the vapour
of the cigar, as the “smoke which so gracefully curled” showed the
author of “The Woodpecker” that he was in the vicinity of a cottage. If
you cannot discover them by this sign, you must look out for their
studs—they have a great idea of studs—usually like blue raspberries,
which you will find glittering in the sun. If, by chance, they wear a
long stock, then they have two pins and a chain; but such pins! and such
a chain! You can never see any thing like them, unless you go to the
Lowther Arcade; and there, amongst those wondrous collections of
ornamental and useful articles which strew that thoroughfare—for all the
houses appear to have turned themselves and their contents out of the
window—you will find similar ones; meant, however, if we mistake not,
for the back plaits of ladies’ hair. And this reminds us that the
Lowther Arcade is a favourite lounge with the Gents: it is possible
that, from the glittering stores here displayed, they acquire their
taste for jewellery. The Lowther Arcade is to the men in the city
chambers what the Burlington is to the denizens of the Albany. It is, as
it were, the frontier between the two hemispheres of London life, to
which position it lays some claim, inasmuch as when very crowded, a
personal examination of effects sometimes takes place on passing it. And
great is the throng here of an afternoon, principally composed of Gents
and seedy foreigners, walking up an appetite for the incomprehensible
carte of Berthollini; or a doubtful cross between these two varieties of
the human species, found, upon investigation, to be attached to
billiard-tables. And, by the way, remember, that of all the scamps upon
town, your billiard-table _habitués_ are the darkest. Here they walk up
and down for hours, loading the air with the products of combustion from
their cheap cigars, (cigars again!) puffing the smoke into every bonnet
they meet, or standing at the entrance with a whip in their hands, as
though they had just got off their horse, and were keeping an
appointment. But in reality they have no horse, nor do they expect any
body.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

There are several loungers at this part of the town, who belong neither
to the race of Gents nor Foreigners, and certainly are not military,
although they evidently wish to be considered so; to whom we may briefly
allude; for they partake, in a slight degree, of the characteristics of
the former. They wear mustaches and curious frock-coats, sometimes with
dabs of braid about them. Their hair is wiry and dark, and they are
constantly arranging it with their hands. Sometimes they are seen with
spurs; occasionally they carry a black cane, shouldered like a gun,
twisted round their arm, with its head in their pocket, held upside
down, in any way but the normal one. Day after day, when it is fine;
nay, year after year; there they are, true _batteurs de pavé_. You may
follow them for hours, and you will never see them speak to, or
recognised by, any body. They do not even commune with each other.
Nobody knows them; they belong to no club, and are never seen anywhere
else. And it is remarkable that, like butterflies, you only come across
them in bright weather. Where they go to at other times we cannot tell;
we shall never be able to do so, until we have solved two other similar
enigmas with respect to pins and bluebottles; and their ultimate
destination is, to our thinking, the greatest marvel of the present day.
For the corpses of the latter, found in grocers’ windows and saucers of
unacknowledged poisons, and the rusty remains of the former discovered
between boards, bear no comparison to the numbers that have existed.
This disappearance is as remarkable as the generation of the fine woolly
substance you find in the corner of your waistcoat pocket, where you
have only kept a pencil-case and latch-key. But this by the way.

[Illustration]

We have said the Gent likes to be outside an omnibus. But he also loves
the roof—literally, the roof; and he almost rejoices when he finds that
the box is full, and he is obliged to perch there; for his mind appears
to be brightened by his position, and many eccentricities are induced.
He nods to other passengers as they pass, in a familiar manner, causing
them to puzzle themselves almost into insanity during the remainder of
the day, in endeavours to recollect who he could have been. He winks at
the elder pupils of the promenading Hammersmith academies, if on their
road; and tells old ladies, when they get out to go away, to give his
love at home, and that he will be sure to write to them. He also has a
cigar here, and he offers one to the coachman and other passengers.
Before stages were exterminated the Gent preferred the box just the
same; indeed, he felt in a measure degraded if he could not get it; and
when the coachman got down he liked to hold the reins and whip in the
proper manner, and show people that he was perfectly used to such a
thing, and, for aught they could tell, might have a four-in-hand of his
own.

A variety of this last style of Gent, whom we may call the Driving Gent,
has lately come up about town. We were in the Strand the other
afternoon, and suddenly heard some notes from a post-horn, very badly
blown; upon which we looked round, and saw a dog-cart approaching, with
two horses to it, driven tandem fashion, with ferret-bells on their
bearing reins. On this dog-cart were four Gents—not two gentlemen and
two servants, as might have been expected. They were all dressed nearly
alike; hats with narrow brims, coats with large buttons, staring shawls,
and trowsers of the most prominent style—very _loud_ patterns, as a
friend appropriately called them. Three had cigars, and the other had
the horn; and it was evident that they thought they were “doing the fast
thing, and no mistake.” We saw them afterwards in the Park, and chanced
to follow them for some distance. The whole time they were there they
never exchanged a salute with a soul—evidently they were out of their
sphere; but went round and round, looked at by every body with something
between a stare and a sneer, until they drove off again. The last time
we saw them, they were shaking hands with a fighting man at the door of
a gin-shop.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VII.

                   OF THE GENT WHO GOES TO THE RACES.


THE Gent who goes to the races must not be confounded with the Sporting
Gent, of whom we may speak by-and-by. He knows nothing in the world
about the running, nor indeed does he care much about it, beyond the
manner in which it may affect a chance he has in a “Derby Sweep.” But he
thinks the fact of being seen there gives him a position in society, and
he would not miss the races for any thing.

As the Gent who goes to the races is closely allied to the Gent we saw
at the night taverns, we will describe him in the same fashion.

He buyeth a “D’Orsay blouse,” which he believeth to have been made under
the Count’s own eye; a blue cravat, spotted with white wafers; a whip,
and a pair of short patent boots, to produce an effect; in which he
mounteth a “fast four-horse coach” from the “Garrick’s Head.” At the
“Elephant and Castle,” being called “my noble sportsman” by the vender
of the cards, he buyeth one, and conceiveth that he is taken for Lord
Chesterfield. He asketh the vender, with a severe look, “if it is
Dorling’s?” to show that he is “a downy cove,” and not to be done. He
also hath a glass of pale ale. On Clapham Common he seeth a ladies’
school, and boweth to the tall pupil; whereupon the tall pupil receiveth
a chiding from the English teacher for unseemly levity, and the tall
pupil accuseth the half-boarder of being the true culprit. At Mitcham he
hath another pale ale, and delighteth in being recognised by a man on a
pony, whom he sayeth is “Bob Croft;” after which, he winketh or kisseth
his hand to all the housemaids, who, on the Derby Day, invariably take
two hours and a half to make the front-room bed; swinging his legs over
the side seat of the roof, that his boots may dazzle the rustics. At
Sutton he hath another pale ale. This fully openeth his heart, and he
carolleth lustily until he reacheth the Downs, when he hopeth to be
taken for one of the Guards. A gipsy woman telleth him that he hath a
wicked eye, and that his company is agreeable to various female
Christian names; whereon he giveth her a shilling and the tail of a
lobster, the large claw of which he putteth to his nose, and in his
imagination doeth the “fast thing.”

[Illustration]

After the race (than which he sayeth he never saw a better, albeit he
hath seen but few) he thinketh it “nobby” to throw at the sticks, and
insisteth that the merchant do set up a bell, a feathered cock, and a
pear that discourseth music most unhappily, by pulling out the stalk,
and blowing through it. He seeth Lord ——, whom he knoweth by sight, next
to him, laden with crockery, dogs, and Napoleons, pincushions,
money-boxes, and soldiers in remarkable uniforms, partaking of the
Grenadier’s, Highlander’s, and Turk’s; and he striveth to knock down
more things than the patrician. But in this he faileth, and intruding on
the other’s aim, is called a “snob,” which, in the kindness of his
heart, he resenteth not, but carrieth his winnings in his hat back to
the coach, after which he walketh about “to see the fine women.” Next he
hath more lunch, until his heart openeth wider than ever, and he
thinketh, “This is life rather; what a fast one I am, and can’t I do it
when I choose! Hurrah!” He then challengeth strange men on the roofs of
distant vehicles to take wine, because he knoweth “they are the right
sort,” and finisheth by trying a hornpipe on the roof of his own, in all
the enthusiasm of ale, sun, lobster salad, dust, champagne, and a
post-horn.

Going home, his humour knoweth no bounds. He tieth his handkerchief to
his stick for a flag, until he loseth his hat, when he tieth his
handkerchief round his head. He sitteth on the post-horn, and causeth it
to resemble a ram’s. He pelteth old gentlemen driving four-wheeled
chaises with snuff-boxes, and distributeth pincushions to the domestics,
breaking windows withal. He liketh to know who any one is who upsetteth
him by offensive speech; and tumbleth to the ground at Sutton, where he
wisheth for several pale ales while the coach stoppeth to cool the
wheels, which follow the example of the passengers, and begin to smoke.
Here he danceth a lively measure in the road before a landau, and
smileth wickedly at the occupants. Getting troublesome, he is put in the
inside, with the helper, the hamper, and the dirty plates, where he
remaineth until he reacheth London, when he sayeth, “Let’s make a night
of it.” But the manufacturing process is scarcely worthy the reader’s
attention. The next day he sayeth, “I must dine at Berthollini’s for two
months to come, and give up suppers.”

[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                      OF CERTAIN GENTS IN SOCIETY.


ONCE, when like Mr. Tennyson we were “waiting for the train at
Coventry,” and thinking of Lady Godiva—the Gents would like to have
peeped at Godiva—we saw a penny show on the ground floor of an empty
house in a principal street of that good city. It consisted of “A Happy
Family”—a collection of various animals, of different natures, in one
cage—like the travelling menagerie opposite the National Gallery, but on
a much larger scale. The members of the “family” were quietly enjoying
the pleasure of each other’s society, with the exception of two monkeys,
one of whom sat sullenly scowling at some mice, as he hugged himself up
into a ball in every body’s way; and the other created much discomfort,
from time to time, by rushing about in a frantic manner, running over
his neighbours, performing totally useless feats of agility, and
deporting himself generally in an absurd and unseemly fashion.

Now, taking monkeys to be the Gents of the animal kingdom, we were
pleased to see how closely they resemble their human brethren:—for the
Gents you encounter in society are of two kinds. Taking an assembly as
the place where you would be most likely to come upon them, you will
find them either endeavouring to “do the grand,” by not joining in the
current amusements of the evening; or overstepping all bounds of
ordinary behaviour—“going it,” to use their own words—and committing
every kind of preposterous and silly offence against the received rules
of society.

If you talk to the first of these, whom we may call the dreary Gent, you
will always find that he has been “dining with some fellows he knows;”
or “having a weed with a man;” and you will be reminded of cigars. He
affects a drawling indifferent tone of voice, which he considers cool
and fashionable; and he prefers keeping outside the drawing-room door,
upon the landing, because “he don’t want to be bored to dance.” He wears
broad tails to his coat, and most probably the buttonholes are brought
together over his chest by a small snaffle; whilst, hanging by a bit of
chain from his waistcoat pocket, is a little broquet key, made like a
dog’s head, the nose of which winds up his watch. His stock is of
figured satin, very gay, and very narrow, and with long twisted ends, in
which is stuck a large pin—usually a claw holding a stone, as big and as
white as a pea of Wenham ice from a sherry cobbler. He will ask you, “if
you were up at Putney on Tuesday;” and if you were not, and do not even
know what great event took place on that day, be sure that he regards
you with great contempt. Like all Gents, he has a great notion of
champagne, which at supper he drinks by himself from a tumbler as he
would drink it at a night tavern, as aforesaid, from a tankard.

Very opposite to him is the joyous Gent, whom we may term the Perrot of
private life. He always gives us the notion of a ballet-dancer spoiled,
especially in Pastorale or the Polka; in which latter dance, if he does
not happen to have for his partner a young lady of determined spirit,
and a keen discrimination of right and wrong, he will launch off into
all sorts of toe-and-heel tomfooleries, such as simple people used to
perpetrate when the Polka first broke out—such as you may still see,
after supper, at Jullien’s and Vauxhall, or at the “Gothics,” and other
ten-and-sixpenny demi-public hops, of the same genus, even at the
Hanover Square Rooms. The joyous Gent is very great indeed in cheap
dancing-academy figures. He knows the “Caledonians” and the “Lancers;”
he loves the “Spanish dance,” and patronises the gloomy, and almost
extinct “Cellarius.” And we will make any reasonable wager, that before
the quadrille begins, he will bow to his partner, and then to the corner
lady, or the one on his left.

The social acquirements of the joyous Gent are many, and he delights in
every opportunity of exhibiting them. His strongest points are his
imitations of popular performers, especially Buckstone, in whose manner
he says, “well I never!—did you ever!—oh never!—oh wlaw!” in a manner
that elicits the loudest applause. Next he attempts Macready, as
follows:—

           “Nay—dearest—nay—if thou—wouldst have—me paint
            The home—to which—could love—fulfil—its prayers,—
            This hand—would lead—thee—listen.”

Then Mr. T. P. Cooke, when he pitches his voice in a low falsetto,
hitches his trowsers, says, “My dear eyes! what! Sewsan!” and affirms
that “no true heart is altered by the gilt swabs on the shoulders, but
is ever open to the cry of a female in distress.”

Possibly the next will be Mr. Paul Bedford, when he rolls his _r_
and says, “Come along, my r-r-r-r-rummy cove; come along
comealong-comealong! how are you? how d’ye do? here we are! I’m a
looking at you like bricksywicksywicksies—I believe you my
boy-y-y-y-y!”

And directly afterwards he turns up his nose with his forefinger, and
looks like Mr. Wright, as he exclaims, “Come, I say you know, guv’nor,
none o’ them larks eh! you didn’t ought to was.”

All these are sure to be received with the greatest enthusiasm: and as
he usually gives the name of the actor he is about to imitate, before he
commences, he is spared the unpleasantry attendant upon the remark of
some guest, who says “Capital! famous! it’s Keeley himself,” when the
ingenious Gent is attempting an impersonation of Farren.

But after all his surest card is Buckstone.

[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER IX.

                         OF GENTS ON THE RIVER


THE grand gathering of Gents is only to be met with as one universal
réunion of all their varieties, on board the Sunday steamboats. No city
in the world produces so many holiday specimens of tawdry vulgarity as
London: and the river appears to be the point towards which all the
countless myriads converge. Their strenuous attempts to ape gentility—a
bad style of word, we admit, but one peculiarly adapted to our
purpose—are to us more painful than ludicrous: and the labouring man,
dressed in the usual costume of his class is, in our eyes, far more
respectable than the Gent, in his dreary efforts to assume a style and
tournure which he is so utterly incapable of carrying out.

[Illustration]

When joining a steamboat excursion the Gent never sits on the regular
benches placed for that purpose. He prefers the top of the
cabin-door—the steps of the paddle-boxes—the platform on which the
steersman is elevated, and the like situations. Here you may always see
him with a newspaper and a bottle of stout, a light blue stock, and,
being Sunday, a very new hat, and a pair of white trowsers: with Berlin
gloves, which he carries in his hand. For, indeed, not being used to
them, nothing presents so perfect an idea of tolerated discomfort as a
Sunday Gent in a pair of gloves. We can only compare the appearance of
his hands, when suffering under the infliction, to those of a Guy
Fawkes, or the tailors’ dressed-up dummies before alluded to.

[Illustration]

But there are also aquatic Gents, who row in boats on regatta
afternoons, and hope to be mistaken for “Leanders.” Their principal
characteristics when on the river, in this phase, are propensities to
wear pink silk jerseys, and silk caps. Now and then they have been known
to row in white kid gloves. But they may soon be detected; and are
especially found out by a race of amphibious aborigines who affect the
river and its banks, known to the natives as “Coalies” and “Bargees;”
and who call them _tailors_, and make unpleasant allusion to goose and
board, whereupon the anger of the Gents being called forth, they retort,
asking of the latter _amphibia_ above alluded to, “who eat the puppy pie
under Marlow bridge?” In which query, it is presumed, lies a hidden
taunt of rankling venom; for the “Bargees” immediately indulge in
language which would shock any one of a properly constituted mind, very
dreadfully—and call the Gents _sweeps_, not always without some
adjective prefixed, more powerful than polite.

River Gents are very fond of talking of their “rooms;” which means the
rooms rented by Oxford and Cambridge rowing men, for their meetings
previous to matches, starting, &c. With these, and the members of them,
the Gent professes to have an intimate acquaintance, albeit most likely
he never entered them, and would in all probability be snubbed out, or
possibly kicked, if he made the attempt.

Another great feature in the natures of the river Gents, is that of
belonging to four-oared cutter-clubs, with startling names; such as, the
Argonauts, the Corsairs, &c. They have their boats very elaborately
adorned—red and blue; and lots of gilding being considered the thing;
with the arms of the club—the only ones with which they have, in any
way, any thing to do—being emblazoned everywhere. In such clubs the
members row up to Putney, dine, get drunk, sing out of window, and come
back in an omnibus, leaving their waterman to bring the boat home the
next day.

The river Gent always knows a man with a yacht, with whom he has once
been as far as Gravesend. This enables him to talk about the “Bargee;”
and even when he thinks he is entirely amongst the unsophisticated, to
launch into hazardous remarks about a “flying-jib,” and the build of the
_Prima Donna_. And if he in any way intends to make a great effect, he
has been frequently known to take the name of Lord Alfred Paget in vain;
which is a great thing, not only with river Gents, but all sorts of city
yacht men generally.

[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER X.

                      OF THE GENT AT THE CASINOS.


IT is probable that, at some time or the other, you have been at a fête
in Paris.

Because if you have, you will recollect the gay “Bal de Paris” that was
lighted up so tastefully when it became dark. You will recall the order
that reigned there, so different to the vulgar jostling and dreary riot
of the “Crown and Anchor” at Greenwich Fair. If you have not been there,
figure to yourself an enormous tent, say one hundred feet long,
supported by gilt pillars, with pretty festoons, and surrounded by
trophies and tricoloured flags, of red, blue, and white calico all
round. The floor is neatly boarded; and in the centre, an excellent
orchestra, of a dozen musicians, performing all the most popular
quadrilles, waltzes, and polkas of Paris. Five sous is charged for
entrance, and an extra demand of five sous is made each time you dance;
when you are not considered as transgressing etiquette in asking any
fair one that your choice may fall upon. The utmost order prevails.
Indeed, the municipal guards in attendance with their fierce mustaches
and tiger-skin helmets, will soon march you off between them if you
overstep decorum.

With respect to the refreshments, there is not the immense bar which we
see at the Greenwich Fair and Moulsey Race-course dancing assemblies,
covered with cold boiled-beef, ham, fowls, bottled-porter, pipes, and
crockery; but then there is a small tent aside from the grand one, for
lemonade, _sirop de groseilles_, wine, coffee, and Rheims biscuits,
which has an air of refinement never met with in England at meetings of
this kind. Dancing is the sole object of the company; and dance they do;
and so did we, too, once upon a time (as soon as we got over our
thorough English idea that every body was looking at us), and we can
safely say we enjoyed ourselves much more there than we had done at any
dashing evening parties in London. And then the practice in French
conversation which it affords! You can speak so easily, so fluently, to
a pretty grisette in the middle of a dance, and under the influence of a
bottle of _vin ordinaire_, at twelve sous; it beats all the masters,
believe us; and we speak from experience. But all this by the way. All
have their hobbies, and pretty grisettes are ours.

Few have watched these agreeable dances without lamenting the absence of
such things from our English festivals: we believe it is the Gents alone
who have proved the obstacles to their proper introduction. For they
would never keep quiet, and simply enjoy themselves. They would think it
necessary to “have a spree;” and could not exist ten minutes without
surreptitiously lighting a cigar, for any consideration. He would think
that he was not “nobby” if he did not have some wretched champagne: and
this miserable mess, getting into his head, would lead him into all
manner of offensive behaviour. For no Gent can stand much wine, at any
time; and Gent’s wine in particular, such as Casino champagne, fearfully
upsets them.

When we first heard that M. Laurent was going to start a shilling
concert and dance we were much disquieted; for we knew at what a rampant
pitch Gentism would arrive there. But it was somewhat gratifying to see
that the sensible behaviour of a few strong-minded visitors somewhat
awed them into propriety. Still there are many who still assemble; and
the use of this chapter is, that you may be shown how to know and avoid
them.

The Casino Gent especially likes a white over-coat, short, with large
buttons; and under this he disposes a gay shawl, so as to look like the
collar of a waistcoat. He carries a short stick, and this he never parts
with under any pretence; but in a polka you will see it high in air
above the whirling confusion of dances, and by this signal may trace his
progress about the room.

[Illustration]

His polka is not of the first order; it savours more of the dancing
academy than the drawing-room; and he has scarcely yet given up the
fandango atrocities before alluded to, that disgraced the polka on its
first introduction into England. Hence you will at times still see him
“kicking up behind and before” in an absurd manner, that “Old Joe,” of
Ethiopian celebrity, could scarcely have outdone.

[Illustration]

This Gent is not very clever at the _deux temps_. Before he knew what it
was, he used to imagine that certain fools were dancing the polka to a
waltz time; but now he has found out his error, albeit he still looks
upon it with a sort of contemptuous expression, such as unpleasant
people in general adopt when they are called upon to admire something
popular that they cannot do themselves. In the intervals of the dances
he promenades the room, laughing loudly about nothing particular, and
hitting his friends on the back with his stick, to attract their
attention. And no true Gent, got up as we have described, ever entered
the Casino but he did not firmly believe that he was _the_ man of the
assembly. Hence two Gents will always look savage at one another when
they meet.

_Au reste_, the Gent is soon subdued, when too lively, by the proper
authorities: and he has great belief in the power of an acquaintance
with Mr. Henry Mott, who delights in elegant white cravats, and is the
head master of the ceremonies, nearest the band and the sherry-cobblers.

With respect to other public balls, you will not meet many Gents at
Weippert’s, or the St. James’s. The men there are too strong for them;
not physically, but in social position; and the _lorettes_ of these
assemblies have quick eyes at detecting snobbishness of any kind. We
have seen one or two Gents at either place; but they always looked
especially wretched—as much out of their place as a toadstool in a
conservatory. The gentlemen did not insult them; they only tacitly
objected to be vis-à-vis to them, and quietly withdrew their partners
from the set, until the Gents stood alone.

They are in greater force at _bals masqués_, in and out of costume. Many
Gents conceive that going in a scarlet coat and top-boots, and now and
then shouting “Yoicks!” constitutes the fast thing: hence there is
always one of this kind. Others adopt large noses, and false mustaches,
which they think is “doing it—rather!” But you never see them in
characteristic or original costumes; nor, lacking them, do they even
adhere to a recognised evening toilet. They prefer their beloved railway
trowsers, and flaring stocks and shawls, and centre all their notions of
full-dress in a paletot. M. Jullien is gradually changing all this: we
trust he will not stop until he places the masked ball—“bal marsk” the
Gent calls it—on a level with those of Paris. But then the complimentary
admissions must be weeded; and the authorities must learn that it is not
at all necessary to engage a few wretched supernumeraries from the
theatres, in dingy wardrobe costumes, to support the festivity of the
evening. All low people, including Gents, get drunk; and all drunken
people are miserable nuisances.

_Note._—If ever you see two Gents dancing together at a _bal masqué_,
you are at liberty to kick and insult them, with every opprobrious
epithet.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XI.

                      OF THE GENT AT THE SEA-SIDE.


THERE is a period in the year of London existence, when that portion of
it termed the Season, _par excellence_, comes to an end with every body,
whatever their station; for very few there are who do not, somehow or
other, contrive to get out of town, when the great rush from home—that
flight of the soul of the departed Season—is at its height. Every body
who has not already gone, is going; nobody will own to staying in town,
even if compelled to do so. Houses are shut up, blinds newspapered, and
furniture tied up in bags: in fact, to make a wretched joke, whilst the
family is on the Rhine, its lamps and ottomans are all in Holland. There
are no more carriages whirling about the west-end streets: no more
thundering knocks echoing all day, and night, too, for the matter of
that, in the squares. You write letters, and get no answers: you make
calls, and find nobody at home, but a servant on board wages, who runs
out into the area to look at you before she answers the door, in great
astonishment. You think it almost disreputable to be seen about, so you
follow the rest, and go away.

This feeling extends throughout all classes of society: and going down
lower and lower, at last reaches the Gent, who copies the gentleman, but
sees, as usual, every thing through a wrong medium. In fact, his
reflection is that of a spoon, in more senses than one: making the most
outrageous images of the original, distorting all the features, but
still preserving a strange sort of identity.

The Gent has two favourite places of sea-side resort, according to his
idiosyncrasies: if joyous, he goes to Gravesend; if dreary, to Ramsgate.
Margate is neither one thing nor the other, and Brighton is really too
respectable. He cannot there show off: and to show off is the battle of
the Gent’s life. But Gravesend is delicious. The transit is cheap and
rapid; the lodgings are moderate; an effect in dress can be made at an
easy rate; and, above all, there is that largest ornamental chalk-pit in
the world, Rosherville.

We are, perhaps, wrong in putting Gravesend under the head of sea-side
resorts: but the Gent considers it to be so. And, indeed, the baths
there offer peculiar advantages, combining the properties of both fresh
and salt water, with the impurities of both, and the attributes of
neither. Yellow slippers may also be purchased in the town; and this
circumstance induces the belief, that the neighbouring water is the sea;
a delusion which appears common not only amongst the Gents, but most of
the settlers. This, however, by the way: we were speaking of
Rosherville, the paradise which mainly draws the Gents from town.

The costume of the Gent at Rosherville is analogous to the one he wears
at the promenade concerts, with the exception, that he has a more airy
cravat, of brighter hue, and smokes perpetually, except in the
ball-room; and he would do that, thinking it was “the thing,” if a board
did not warn him: showing that such warning was found absolutely
necessary. And here, whilst listening to the “military band” of the
first detachment of the Light Coldstream Indefatigables, he puts his hat
on one side, sits on a table, and tapping his short boot, which
discovers its form through his trowsers, with his equally curtailed
cane, believes, as usual, that he is _the_ man of the assembly.

The Gent has several fashions in the dancing at Rosherville, different
from those of the Casino. In the first place, he takes off his hat, and
hangs it on a peg, if there is one vacant; if not, he leaves it at the
bar. Then he bows to his partner, and, if he knows her very well, courts
at the same time: and, subsequently, he salutes the corners with great
politeness, previous to commencing the first set. But this particular
set does not stand very high in estimation. In common with other balls
for the _basse classe_, its component Gents prefer dances of intricate
and abnormal fashion: and so it is here also considered _ton_ to perform
the _Caledonians_ (which nobody ever knows all through, except the
master of the ceremonies), the _Lancers_, _Spanish Dances_, the
_Cellarius_, even the _Gavotte_, and other frantic arrangements of
gasping professors, including, of course, “_La Polka_” as it is always
termed, in their parlance. And on “Gala Nights,” still more wonderful
evolutions are gone through, all of which are due to the inventive
genius of the aforesaid inimitable M.C., whose friendship the Gent
especially prizes. For at Rosherville that great man is to be
seen—actually, really to be seen—walking like an ordinary person,
amongst ordinary fellow creatures. He is no longer a phantasy of mental
conception—not that zephyr in pumps bounding amidst new-laid eggs and
tea-things, or matchlessly performing his Marine Hornpipe in top-boots,
or Chinese Fandango in handcuffs, or Milanese Fling in the double
jack-chains; but a substantial reality,—the glass of fashion, the mould
of form, whom we can never fancy putting off the pumps of ceremony for
the high-lows of necessity—in a word, THE BARON NATHAN.

The Gent at Ramsgate would be the last to persuade that it is really a
dull place. He is one of the most strenuous upholders of that greatest
of all popular delusions suffered to go unchallenged, that English
sea-side watering-places generally are pleasant spots to emigrate to,
and Ramsgate in particular. We know, as far as we are concerned, that we
once underwent transportation for seven days to that penal settlement;
and that we never before suffered (we expect in common with every body
else) from such a ghastly gasping after the belief that we were “doing a
holiday,” as the Gent would say, as during that time.

How the Gent makes up his mind to go to Ramsgate at all we cannot make
out; but there he always is: and he divides the measure of his revelry
thereat into four goes of excitement: Going on the sands; Going out
sailing; Going on the pier; and Going to Sachett’s.

_Going on the sands_ is the weakest of the Gent’s pastimes: but he says,
with a loud laugh, that it is to see the ladies bathe. Elsewhere it
would be confined to watching children bury one another in the sand,
with small wooden spades—a performance which, like a pantomime, however
interesting on first representation, somewhat flags in interest upon
repetition. The Gent usually takes two chairs to rest upon, and stares
hard at every body else, especially the females, the while he sketches
feeble designs with his short stick, which he never by any means parts
with, on the sand.

[Illustration]

_Going out sailing_ is also a slow business—slower than a few friends
after a dinner-party for a carpet polka; or a standard five-act-play; or
a wedding breakfast; or the outside half of yesterday’s _Times_; or a
book written with a “high moral purpose;” or a Charing-Cross-to-the-Bank
omnibus—and that is saying a good deal: the Gent, however, likes it: for
then he puts on a shirt ruled with blue ink, the collar of which he
turns down: and talks of “jibs,” and “tacks,” and “sheets,” and also
alludes to the man he knows who keeps a yacht. And he takes his
cigar—his loved cigar—as soon as he leaves the harbour. And as he leaves
the harbour he stands in an attitude, and believes that the young ladies
who show their ankles on the pier imagine him to be a Red Rover.

Perhaps _Going on the pier_ is the Ramsgate Gent’s greatest treat:
because then he can put on his gay clothes, and once more think that he
is rather the thing. But in this the Gent makes a great mistake. He
dresses but once in the day, and then puts on a frock-coat, which he
wears to dinner, and all the evening; not exactly understanding, we
expect, what is the real difference between morning and evening toilets.
For as Gentlemen usually dress after a walk, so do Gents dress before
one: and if they do not appear in their “best” to walk up and down the
pier—which at Ramsgate is the chief straw that the sinking _ennuyés_
clutch at—and stare superciliously at all whom they do not know, they
think they are snobs—the snob being to the Gent what the Gent is to the
Gentleman.

The prevalence of Gents at Ramsgate, in such numbers that the fine
weather brings them out like bluebottles, is easily accounted for.
There is a certain class of families who go to Ramsgate every year,
because they were there the last. They come either from the
Pancras-cum-Bloomsbury district of London, or having shops, or
ware-rooms, or counting-houses in the City, live in suburban villas
comfortably off, and believing greatly in all conventional rules of
society, getting perhaps once a year to the Opera, thinking a great
deal of Mansion-house balls, and believing to a great degree in
fashion-books. Well, these good folks affect Ramsgate greatly, and so
take their families with them. The girls of this class pass muster
pretty well; Clapham or Chiswick academies teaching them certain
school accomplishments, which pass current for a decent education
amongst their equals—but the boys are always Gents. The same feeling
which induces their parents to believe that the more showily they can
set out their dinner-table the higher they rise in social life, makes
these sons imagine that two or three dear and flashy articles of dress
place them on a level with the well-born and well-bred Gentleman.
Accustomed in their own spheres to take the lead, they will not go
where they meet men who attain very good stations in society without
large studs or noisy-patterned cravats; and constantly associating,
one with the other, they get lost beyond all redemption. And of these
is the migratory young-man society of Ramsgate chiefly composed.

Of the same class is the Gent at Boulogne. He is at first a long time
being persuaded to go there; because he knows that his ignorance of the
language will be an awful drop to his consequence, and bring him down at
once to his elements in a very humiliating manner. But after a while,
finding that every body else knows something about it but himself, he
determines to go. And in this wise doth he deport himself.

_Imprimis_ he alloweth his mustaches to grow, which giveth him the look
of an officer-lover in a farce at the Eagle, but assimilateth to the
foreigner in nothing. He delighteth in brutal conduct to the native
functionaries, which he taketh to be a fine display of national spirit,
and thinketh that they are impressed with respect for him thereby. He
calleth the _vin ordinaire_ “rot,” but drinketh brandy to intoxication.
He shouteth with hoarse joyless laughter at French peculiarities, and
thinketh that, by so doing, he displayeth a fine-natured _naïveté_. He
deemeth the greatest discovery ever made to be that of a tavern whereat
British stout is retailed; and thinketh that he maketh a joke of
excellent pungency when he saith “Waterloo,” to a French soldier. He
careth not for the indigenous hotels, but loveth better the English
boarding-house, where he can have “a good John Bull joint, and no French
kickshaws:” John Bull being represented generally as a vulgar top-booted
man verging on apoplexy, with, evidently, few ideas of refinement,
obstinate and hard-natured; but the Gent conceiveth that upon occasions
it is ennobling to profess attachment to him.

[Illustration]


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                              CHAPTER XII.

                     NOTES OF CERTAIN OTHER GENTS.


THERE is a species of Gent who, moving only in a third or fourth rate
sphere, goes to a party in a white cravat and turned up wristbands, and
carries his hat into the room because he had heard that Gentlemen do so.
He is generally an immense card. We chanced to stand next to a specimen
of this kind, one evening, in a quadrille, and the only remark we heard
him make was inquiring of his partner, after two or three false starts,
whether she preferred dancing on a carpet or the bare boards: to which
the young lady replied, having looked down to see what the floor was
(that she might not “put her foot in it,” figuratively speaking), that
she preferred a carpet, she thought: and this was the beginning and end
of the conversation.

[Illustration]

A sample of this variety fixed himself upon us once, as we were taking a
stroll, merely upon the intimacy of a casual party introduction two or
three weeks before, where we had procured him some trifle at supper,
solely because we did not choose to run the chance of allowing him to
approach the table and stand near the pretty girl over whose white
shoulder we stretched our arm to help him. We found out that he was
minutely particular about his deportment in the street, and a pretty
treat we gave him. First of all we rattled our stick against the area
railings of the houses: then we bought penny bunches of cherries at the
stalls, and munched them as we went along, continually pressing him to
take some, or propelling the stones, six at a time, along the pavement
in front of us. We cut off the angles of all the squares, and ran very
fast across all the crossings; and then took off a little boy’s cap, and
carried it a short way with us, to provoke a few salutations in our
wake, of that pleasing and forcible kind which only little boys in the
streets can give with such piquancy of expression. We finally got rid of
him by insisting upon stopping at the corner of Berners Street to see
_Punch_—an exhibition we never, by any means, omit playing audience to:
although we know many Gents who think their station in society would be
lost for ever, were they once observed taking an interest in any thing
half so common.

There is a peculiar race of Gents to be seen, through the windows,
lounging in tobacco-shops; some leaning against the counter, others
seated on tubs, or occupying the like positions. This employment is
another variety of what Gents think “fast.”

[Illustration]

The presiding goddess of this temple of smoke is a scantily educated
woman, who has been more or less pretty at some time or another; but
still retains, it would seem, sufficient attraction to draw the Gents
about her. Here they will pass hours, finding intense pleasure in her
commonplace uninteresting conversation—retailing dull jokes, worn-out
anecdotes, or vapid inevitable puns to each other; and staring at any
casual purchaser who may enter the shop, as if he were an intruder on
their domain.

There are the Gents, also, who are afterwards seen in the theatres at
half-price: in the slips during the performances, and in the saloon
during the _entr’acte_—the class who, whilst they carry on brisk
conversation and smart repartees (of a sort) with the least reputable in
public life, form the vapid nonentities of private society when females
are present. They are men, to use a phrase more expressive than elegant,
strongly addicted to _bear parties_—who think “a glass of grog and a
weed” the acme of social enjoyment, and who look upon all entertainments
that throw them into the society of ladies, or, indeed, any one of
intellect and refinement, as bores. They are the great men at the night
taverns, before alluded to. All that is, however, harmless in its way;
for the majority of those houses are exceedingly well conducted: and,
indeed, it is only the Gents of the lowest sphere who deem it spirited
to mix themselves up, in other resorts, with the ruffians of the ring
and the most degraded of either sex, in an atmosphere of oaths and
odours, where indecency is mistaken for broad humour and dull slang for
first-rate wit.

It is the cheap tailor who advertises, to whom this style of Gent goes
for his clothes. He is caught by the poetry and the names of the
articles related; as well as of the establishment, whether it be
“Paletot Palace,” “the Kingdom of Kerseymere,” or “the Walhalla of
waistcoats,” as it is termed in those small but lively works of fiction
thrown with such unsparing liberality through the windows of railway
omnibuses. The following is an announcement peculiar to the
Frankensteins of these strange creations. We have written it, and
present the copy-right to any of them that may choose to adopt it.


                      TRIUMPHS OF BRITISH VALOUR.

      Fame’s trumpet says we’ve had victories enough,
      And our great soldiers leave their arms to follow the plough:
      But first to London they came with their retinues complete;
      Everybody makes a holiday to join in the fête.
      Gents’ clothes now are cheap; buy, if you have not,
      And go to Sholomansh’s celebrated depot.
      Mark their drab Chesterfield of the first water,
      With the first rain ’twill shrink three inches shorter.
      Twelve shillings new—it surely can’t be dear,
      And warranted to wear for half the year.
      The celebrated window-cleaning blouse,
      To buy at six-and-six you can’t refuse.
      The pound dress-coat is worthy of all praise,
      And fashionably made of fine black baize.
      With contract suits they build for eager nobs,
      In the most dashing style of Sunday snobs.
      Coarse cloth, rude work, bad cutting, and quick wear,
      With Sholomansh what other can compare?
      And recollect—old suits to be return’d
      If when worn out they’re not worth being burned.
      To suit all climes, Iceland and Ararat,
      For cash he’ll dress you out, and with eclat.


                            LIST OF PRICES.

                                                    £   s.   d.

        Dress coats, warranted to wear three        1   10    0
          weeks

        Ditto trowsers, fashionable plaid or        0    9    6
          railroad

        Splendid vests, of the revolving            0    5    6
          bottle-jack style

        Pasha and Taglioni wrappers, of the last    0   16    0
          horse-cloth out-for-the-day
          half-price-to-the-play pattern

        Young Gent’s Rob Roy, and Glenalvon         0   15    0
          dresses

        Montemolin cloak, 9 yards round,            1   10    0
          warranted to hide the seediest clothes

        Metropolitan shooting costume, for the      2   15    0
          fields in the vicinity of London
          (complete)

        Fashionable Epping hunting-coat             1   10    0

        Racket blouses and morning tenderdens,      0    3    6
          adapted to Gents in the Queen’s Bench,
          from


                 A large assortment.     Terms cash.

                 _Vivat Regina._     No money returned.


                 N.B.—Observe the Address: SHOLOMANSH,
                 CHEAP TAILOR and GENT-FITTER, CITY.


[Illustration]


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                             CHAPTER XIII.

           THE GENTS VIEWED WITH RESPECT TO THEIR EXTINCTION.


IF ANY influential member, bent upon being of service to his country,
would bring in a bill for the “Total Repeal of the Gents,” he would
confer the greatest benefit on society; for until they are entirely
knocked on the head, our public amusements can never be conducted with
the propriety which distinguishes those of Paris.

We believe, with sorrow, that this offensive race of individuals is
peculiar to our own country: we know of no foreign type answering to
them. If persons establishing resorts where they mostly congregate,
could take out an assurance against Gents, as they do against fire, what
a blessing it would be!

We think it would be an excellent plan for respectable electors to make
members pledge themselves to vote for the heavy taxation of various
articles in which Gents chiefly delight. In this tariff we would have
blue stocks; large breast-pins; snaffle coat-studs; curled hair;
collar-galled hacks; Spanish dances; Cellarius waltzes; Caledonian
quadrilles; lithographed beauties, plain and coloured; cheap cigars;
large pattern trowsers; gay under-waistcoats or “vests;” thick sticks;
short canes; walking-whips; and boxes of omnibuses, as distinguished
from omnibus boxes. If the Gents could not enjoy these things without
paying heavy prices for them they would go without; for a great effect
at a small outlay is the main intention of all their follies.

And we also think it might be serviceable towards the great end of
putting Gents out altogether, when any one chances to say, “I know a
Gent,” to exclaim immediately either “You know a _what_?” in accents of
horror, or “You look as if you did!” in a tone of contempt, to bring him
to a sense of his miserable position—in whichever way you think will
best work upon his feelings.

Doudney, Moses, Prew, and Hyams! patrons as ye are of literature
generally, and poets especially! by whose influence the taste of the
Gents is in some measure guided, help us to effect some little reform!
Do not, we beseech you, allow your emblazoned window-tickets to lead
this wretched race into such strange ideas respecting the “fashions” as
they are wont to indulge in. Abolish all those little pasteboard
scutcheons which point out your gaudy fabrics as “Novel,” “The Style,”
“Splendid,” “The Thing,” “Parisian,” and the like. Cut their waistcoats,
in charity, as if you intended them for gentlemen instead of Gents.
Reform your own bills, and appeal not to the sympathies with such wild
innovations: and persuade the literary Gent who writes those charming
little _brochures_ about your establishments—whispered to be the light
contributor to Blackwood’s Magazine—which are presented gratuitously
with the periodicals, to lead the minds of the Gents into another
channel. Let them no longer imagine that the usual method of dressing of
an acknowledged leader of fashion—the gentleman of the greatest taste in
England—is in a puckered six-and-threepenny blouse with braid round the
pockets (for such is the garment that bears his name), a rainbow-tinted
stock, drugget-pattern trowsers, and nine-and-sixpenny broad-brimmed
hats. Do this, and send all your present stock to America.

Editors of Sporting Papers! you are renowned for obliging courtesy:
assist the good work with your able pens, by never allowing the term
“Sporting Gent” to appear in your columns, whether he undertakes to
drive a pony to death, match his dog to be torn to pieces last in a
struggle, or advance a pecuniary inducement for two savages to pummel
each other’s heads to jelly. Did you ever see a “Sporting Gent?” You
must have done so; and you have noted his coarse hands, his flattened
fingers, and dubby nails; his common green coat, his slang handkerchief,
and his low hat: his dreary conversation entirely confined to wiredrawn
accounts of wagers he has won, and matches he can make for any thing.
Never give him a chance of attaining publicity, and he will go out and
disappear altogether, leaving the coast clear for gentlemen.

We are not altogether without a hope that, by strong and energetic
measures, the Gents may be put down—this would be a real “improved
condition of the people” much to be desired. A Court of Propriety might
be established at which Gents could be convicted of misdemeanors against
what is usually considered _comme-il-faut_. And punishments might be
awarded proportionate to the nature of the offence. For a heavy one a
Gent might be transported for fourteen days into good society, where he
would be especially wretched; for a light one he might enter into heavy
recognizances not to smoke cigars on omnibuses or steamers, not to wear
any thing but quiet colours, not to say he knew actresses, and not to
whistle when he entered a tavern, or, with his fellows, laugh loudly at
nothing, when ensconced in his box there, for any time not exceeding the
same period. A Court of Requests would be of no use; for it is of little
avail requesting the Gents to do any thing. Compulsion alone would
reform them.

We trust the day will come—albeit we feel it will not be in our
time—when the Gent will be an extinct species; his “effigies,” as the
old illustrated books have it, being alone preserved in museums. And
then this treatise may be regarded as those zoological papers are now
which treat of the Dodo: and the hieroglyphics of coaches and horses,
pheasants, foxes’ heads, and sporting dogs found on the huge white
buttons of his wrapper, will be regarded with as much curiosity, and
possibly will give rise to as much discussion and investigation as the
ibises and scarabæi in the Egyptian Room of the British Museum. We hope
it may be so.


    VIZETELLY BROTHERS AND CO. PRINTERS AND ENGRAVERS, FLEET STREET


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 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that:
      was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).