University of Virginia Library

2. THE LORGNETTE.

JAN. 30. NEW-YORK. NO. 2.

Another week has gone by, my dear Fritz, in
which the town has been full of its Carnival festivities.
Cheeks that were rosy in the opening of the
winter, are losing, I see, a little of their vermilion;
and the heavy velvet visites, in this spring-like season,
are worn with a languid air.

I little thought, in penning my last, that its revelations
would betray me; you can judge then of
my surprise in being accosted, only two days after
its appearance, with the brusque salutation, “Allons
done, mon cher Timon!”

It seems that my portraits of the tasteful gentleman

and the girls, had been recognized by an acquaintance
who sometimes passes an evening at my
chambers, over a quiet eigar and a brandy toddy.
I have cautioned him, however, against any revelations,
and shall now feel myself at liberty to avail
myself of his suggestions. He is more of a cynic
than myself; and indeed, he is so harsh at times,
that I shall feel bound to temper his youthful extravagances,
by the coolness and sobriety of my
superior years.

This acquaintance, whom I shall call at his own
suggestion, Tophanes, being an abbreviation of the
old Greek Aristophanes, is a shrewd observer of
some eight-and-twenty, well made, of cheerful temperament,
city-bred, and has been these four or five
years living on the town—by which I mean, that
with no ostensible employment, he has yet various
occupations, and the best of all professions, for a
town-liver—that of passing time agreeably.

He may be frequently seen in an arm-chair, at
the head of one of the tables in the reading-room of
the Society Library; but I have observed, that while
seeming to read, his eye is running over the groups
that come every morning to devour the newspapers,
and he is summing up in his own mind an estimate
of the various characters which make up the company.
He follows the same habit in the street, and

will watch passers-by, with the careless way of the
world, while not an action, or movement will escape
his observation. He can tell the daintiness of every
lady's waist that he passes, and can furnish a critique
upon every bonnet and its trimmings. He
knows the name of every belle, and how long she
has been upon the town; he has always at hand a
description of the peculiar charms of each, whether
they lie in figure, in step, in eye, in color, or in
money. He can tell to a nicety, by a glance at
any one of our ball-room beauties, whether she be
fanée, blasée, or passée; he has even, in his time,
kept a little note-book, in which he has entered the
names of the prominent belles of the day, arranged
under various headings, such as—

First Class Belles,
Watering-place Belles,
Second-rate Belles,
New Brighton Belles,
Traveled Belles,
Belles Accessible,
Doubtful Belles,
Stout Belles, and
Eccentric Belles.

Against these, in the true spirit of the Baconian

philosophy, he has entered sundry figures and calculations,—made
estimates in a column at the side of
the page, and occasionally enlivened the inventory
with pleasant descriptive paragraphs, and has even
given at length the distinguishing characteristics of
each species of belle. You will surely agree with
me that he is an auxiliary worth having; and when
I get upon the topic, I shall very likely make free
use of his observations.

His advice to me was most characteristic; nor
do I reckon it without value.

“My dear fellow,” said he, taking up the yellow
pamphlet in his hand, “you are too dainty; you
are shy of the mark; you are staving off the very
matter which you ought to souse into at once. Set
yourself at work upon the elements of our town-society;
entangle them, test them, paint them.
Dip into this strange Opera-going business, and the
puerilities of the coxcomb life. Dish up the Polka
for a dinner, and give us bon-bons for dessert. As
for the church, the books, and the politicians, they
will all come in good time.

“Do you think,” said he, turning upon me suddenly,
“that you could cultivate a moustache?”

“And why?” said I, stroking my lip and chin.

“Simply because it might be worth a thousand
a-year to you, saying nothing of a reversion.”

This was a new idea to me, Fritz; you know
that in my day, I have worn hair enough upon my
face to hide my blushes, even beside the Governor
of Comorn, or the prettiest artist of the town. But
all this I set down to youthful exuberance, and the
careless habit of travel; I thought it a duty to my
Christian brotherhood, to wear now, in the calm
and quiet of life, at least, a Christian physiognomy.
Tophanes explained the matter to me, thus:

“My dear fellow,” said he, assuming the air of
a patron, “you must see a little more of town life
than will come under your eye in these retired
quarters; your name is not particularly tonnish,
though it has fortunately a slight foreign air (my
great-grandfather, from whom I inherited it, was
a Fleming); you don't keep a `drag' or a `milord;'
your seat at the Opera is an humble one;
you are not even boarder at the New-York Hotel;
you have not the entrée at Madame—, (naming
a leader of the exquisite ton); you are a little
passé; you have nothing particularly distingué in
your air; your dress is country made; you have
not, that I know of, been guilty of any little pretty
pardonable crimes against society; you have not
fought a duel, except a sham one, with broad-swords,
behind the old ruin at Heidelberg; you can't very
well, at your time of life, get credit for a liason

with one of the Opera troupe,—so, my dear fellow,
there is no hope for you, but—a moustache!”

I saw at once the justice of his observations, and
determined to consider the matter. I wished, however,
first to look about me, and see what manner of
men were wearing these very essential appendages,
and when my observation shall be complete,—of
which, my dear Fritz, you shall have a full report,
—I will tell you plainly what decision the circumstances
force upon me. Meantime, with the aid of
my friend Tophanes (with whom we will smoke a
pipe together on your first visit), I give you this
little sketch of the city growth of a fashionable
man.

THE FASHIONABLE MAN.

You know him first at an age varying from fifteen
to twenty, by his very prim, square shirt collar,—by
a speckled Joinville tie, a very large-bottomed pantalon,
a boot that must pinch him execrably, and a
hat set the slightest possible bit on one side of his
head. He usually walks Broadway, at this stage
of incipiency, arm-in-arm with a companion, for
he has seen cuts of this mode of procedure, in the
high-life illustrations to Dickens' works; and he

may sometimes be seen swaggering with a very
bold air, and very flat cigar, out of such corner
oyster shops as those of Florence, or Sherwood. At
this age, too, he talks in a very glib style of the ladies,—their
dress and tournure;—he mentions
very familiarly by their first names, certain dashing
specimens who ride in hackney cabs, and who
walk always unattended; and he affects punches,
made very strong. He boldly tips the wink to the
bar-maid, at such genteel places as the Madison
House—sips, and pulls up his shirt collars with a
jaunty air, and sometimes will sit down to a quiet
rubber of whist, in the back parlor.

His mamma, who wishes to restrain his out of door
indulgences, by breeding in him a love for polished
society, invites ladies of undoubted respectability
to her house, and our young master of the Joinville
tie commences early practice of the gallantries
of the drawing-room. His dancing education
is not neglected, and he soon gets a name with the
visiting ladies, for a very pleasant handling of their
forms in the Redowa. He cultivates assiduously
some elder acquaintance at the New-York Club, so
that his card and address come to be familiarly
known to the purveyor of the establishment, and
will get by merest accident upon such lady's lists,
as are made up from the club roll.

Our hero patronizes (that is his word) a fashionable
tailor, and sets off a coat, by dint of slight
wadding, capitally well. His etiquette in the
dressing-room at the balls, is highly careless; and
he draws on his gloves, and adjusts his hair after
the last patterns of established town gentlemen. If
no prominent fashionable scion be found in the
dressing-room, he assumes quite an air, and talks
in very gay humor, and with dashing familiarity
of the ladies below; but if he espies an old Nestor
of the balls, he shrinks into comparative quietude,
and carefully observes the action and deportment of
his senior.

His dancing is easy and piquant, and he finds
without difficulty dashing lady partners, who grown
a little anxious on the score of their own age, are
very willing to commute the stock of years, by
balancing the Polka with a boy.

His talk is necessarily somewhat juvenile; but
he has a carefully prepared round of critiques on
Bertucca and Forti, picked up at the clubs; and
on weather topics, he manifests an insouciance and
freedom, that show him to be a perfect master of
the subject. He sometimes even ventures upon
the fine arts, and has cultivated certain ecstasies of
expression about the Greek Slave, and such like
measures of the town taste, which would be worthy of

an established belle, or the columns of the Sunday
Mercury.

Oldish men, and such ladies as have rather an
unfortunate reputation for good sense, set off with
a spice of satire, he is careful to avoid; he sneers
at their ill-nature, only because their irony is too
strong for his brain.

With his fellows, perhaps he will affect a sporting
turn; he will read very assiduously the Spirit
of the Times,—he will have a shooting jacket made
with a world of pockets, and will sometimes take
it with him, on a trip to a summer watering-place;
but only wears it occasionally of a morning, when he
is sure no sportsmen are by; he will stuff a pocket with
pressed Regalias, and regret that game is so scarce.
He talks in very knowing tones of quail and partridge,
of Grenough guns and Frank Forrester,
and is supplied with all the sporting on dits. He
discourses too about trout-fishing, and Alfred's
tackle, very much as one of the falsettos in the
Papal choir, might talk of deeds of gallantry.

In time, he may come to have a small purplish
gathering of hair upon the upper lip, and he consults
Cristadoro on the prospects of a full-fledged
moustache. Meantime he is rapidly pushing his
ventures in the fashionable world; he may even
boast of a speaking acquaintance with some one of

the Opera troupe of ladies, which he mentions to
his friends with a sly leer, as if something were in
the wind.

He discards, as he gets on, his Joinville tie; he
observes closely the air of foreign gentlemen at
the New-York Hotel, and will presently appear in
a stout, heavy “coachman,” with huge pearl buttons.
He is apt, at this stage, to invite some French
gentleman who is living on the town, to a dinner
at Delmonicos; and if he can push this venture
into a decided familiarity with the foreign representative
of manners, he feels himself a made
man.

If a literary fancy seizes him, he will cultivate
the acquaintance of the musical critics of the newspapers;
he accosts them familiarly (when no ladies are
in sight) in the corridors of the Opera-house, and will
perhaps contribute a letter to the Sunday Herald, or a
rejected sonnet to the Evening Mirror. His reading
will be variously the Home Journal, the Dispatch,
and “all sorts of paragraphs” of the Evening
Post; and when he feels braced for really serious
work, he will perhaps undertake “a card” in
the Courier and Enquirer, a review in the Literary
World, a poem in the Tribune, or a chapter in
“James' last Novel.”

Provided with such stock of litorary matter as

this general reading furnishes, he quite astounds
the young ladies, who, though very good dancers,
do not pretend to be deep; and who smile the prettiest
coquetry back, at all his literary disquisitions,
disclaiming earnestly the name of blues. He will,
however, be rewarded by the very warm looks of
book-loving spinsters, and perhaps be invited to a
conversazione, where if he have a good tongue, and
a few tricks of the players, he may establish a tender
reputation by a triumphant reading of Romeo
and Juliet.

As he grows older, he discards such follies as unworthy
the dignity of a man of ton, and as entirely
useless in the art of salon conquest. If his means
will allow the venture, he will perhaps occasionally
drive a showy horse, in very dainty harness, along
the Bloomingdale road. At the Opera, he will be
provided with a very huge Lorgnette of ebony, or
imitation, and will direct it with the coolest composure
into a lady's face of the next box; and he
will never forget to break out into a rapturous bravo,
when a tall critic in the parquette, or Madame
— gives the concerted signal for applause. And
if one of the troupe appears in unreasonably short
petticoats, he is sure to level his glass at her, with
a most obstinate gaze, and crack some very touching
jokes, which make the lady he is with, blush to

her eyes—unless indeed, she is lately returned from
“abroad,” and is gazing as earnestly as he,
sighing at the prurient modesty of American women.
In this last case indeed, she will have the
advantage of him in audacity, and will talk as
coolly of the shape of Signora's legs, as if it were
the daintiest imaginable topic for a quiet breakfast
chat.

And our hero gains from such encouragement,
at the hands of one who has formed her taste for
morals, and her moral of taste, at Paris, a new step
in his life of fashion; and at his next soirée, he
will repeat the ladies compliments of Signora, until
his dancing partner blushes again. He is now
arrived at a ripe stage; and if Mesdames So-and-so
do not invite him to their balls, it is because they
do not know that a most agreeable talent for ready
and piquant conversation, has been added to his
graceful accomplishment in the waltz. He now
assumes patronizing airs toward the younger members
of his class, and condescendingly offers to present
them at the reception of his lady friends.

A little of the reputation of the roué, will at this
stage add an agreeable spice to his character; and
an intrigue, coyly hinted at, with some married
lady, and offering topic for luxurious chit-chat in
fashionable boudoirs, will be very sure to give him

the entrée to the houses of such “leaders of the ton”
as have hitherto smiled contemptuously at his
pretensions. Old ladies of fashion, grown fat on
drawing-room applause, and luxurious riding, will
taste with as much relish as a dish of game, grown
rank, the luscious flattery dropping from the lips of
a man who has so successfully won his honors.

Now he may count securely on being made manager
of watering-place balls, and will be beset by
mothers of doubtful position, to take pity on their
daughters. He is looked up to by all barbers and
head-waiters, as a man of immense consideration;
and he will walk Broadway with the air of one who
feels that little remains to be learned, and that his
character is beyond criticism. He is a club-man;
and if his cards are well played, and a lofty ambition
spurs him on, he may have the honor of figuring
in the newspapers as one of a committee to give
a public dinner, or to aid in a city reception, or to
do honor to a distinguished ballet-dancer.

Higher than this, it is hardly possible for the man
of fashion to go. He is now become the Achilles of
the street, and the Apollo of the boudoir. If his
funds diminish, or his coiffeur hints at need of a
hair dye, he turns his thoughts to marriage; and
presently all the ladies of a certain age are bewitched
to secure him. Not because he has fortune,

or much mental calibre, or because he is a man
to turn the world upside down, or to make a figure
on the Exchange, or in the courts, or because possessed
of any really intrinsic grace of character,—
but then he is such a charming man,—so very
agreeable,—such a funny man,—so elegant,—with
such handsome eyes,—or such a moustache,—and
then he polks so prettily,—in short, he is such a
dear love of a man!

And as for the stories about him and Madame
So-and-So, there can surely be nothing in them; he
is so audible in his responses at Grace Church, and
such a friend of Doctor —; it must be all envy;
but perhaps Madame So-and-So courted him; and
then he is so kind; and even if he did, how penitent
he must be; and what a delightful thing to
win him back to the paths of virtue! And the fair
apologist, very strong in her love of mercy and
purity, and shedding religious tears of hope, throws
herself back upon her luxurious lounge, and gets a
new lesson of Christian charity and morals, out of
that dear Catholic story of the Lady Alice!

But the Papa has perhaps in this arrangement, a
keener eye to prudence, than to piety. He is very
earnest in his inquiries about stocks, and expectations;
and is anxious to know of what timber the
fashionable man may be built. A moustache,

though a very good recommendation to my lady's
boudoir, or balls, is not, he shrewdly thinks, so taking
on exchange; nor is it altogether the readiest
passport to the confidence and inveiglement of such
clients as manifest a decided wish that their business
should have attention. White kids appear
very prettily in the handling of a Lorgnette, but
they must be cast to manage the execution of a
deed, or to draft a bill of exchange. The pretty
babble about the Dusseldorf, or the tenor of Forti,
may do very well to win a weak lady, but it will
not have very great weight with a jury. Our man
of fashion has then one position up-town, and quite
another in Wall street: among the women, he
passes for a man; and among the men, he passes
for a woman.

If in this emergency of his life, his funds absolutely
fail, he may possibly find friends, who for
the credit of the family, will subscribe for him an
annuity, payable until he shall secure an heiress.
He is now obliged to cut his old acquaintances of
the Opera troupe, and hushes up his reputation for
intrigue, except so much as shall find its way by
friendly lips, to the ears of his victim. For in this
quarter, no acquaintance can do him worse service,
than by sneering at his past gallantries, as sheer
affectations; and he may safely say with the lover,

in the French Comedy: Je ne demandais pas à
étre mauvais sujet; mais, maintenant que c'est
reconnu et établi, il ne faut rien dire! Car en
m'ôtant mes torts, on m'ôterais tous mes avantages.

However, he is regular at church, and affects
thoughtfulness, for he is put perhaps, by some
form-loving mamma, upon probation.

What a changed man!—whispers the delighted
Fredonia; and presently, from a rake, our fashionable
man has become a husband. He has married
a plump five thousand a-year, a delicate complexion,
a great deal of whalebone and bustle, a smattering
of French talk, whole reams of poetic sentiment,
and an incalculable quantity of new novels.

He can now take a box at the Opera, and ride to
Grace Church; he can wink at the sexton, shake
hands with the parson, and utter his responses as
audibly as he chooses. He cuts his poor acquaintances
of the club, and doesn't let his country cousins
know his town address. He drops pennies
into the parish box, wrapped in dingy brown paper,
which resembles old bank bills, and passes with
pious, middle-aged ladies, for a worthy and charitable
Christian. He gives parties, but he does not
pay his grocer's bill.

His wife has expectations, and he takes her rheumatic
uncle out to ride, and presses upon him his

poor cigars, and is very urgent that he should come
to dine with him, when he knows him to be laid up
with an attack of the gout. He sends bouquets,
and valentines, anonymously, but in his own hand-writing,
to his wife's rich aunt. He employs a
fashionable physician, and doesn't venture into Wall
street. He goes to play billiards at the club, and
tells his wife he has business with his lawyer. He
goes to parties, and waltzes with the youngest girls
in the room. He figures on committees for public
balls, and wears white rosette; he consults his
wife's complexion in the purchase of dress, and drapery,
and has long and serious interviews with his
tailor. He subscribes to a morning and evening
paper, and to the Home Journal; and he has his
arms cut upon a signet ring. He reads general
news in de Trobriand's Revue, and the religious
news, in the directions for church service, of the
prayer-book.

He talks with his clergyman about church architecture,—with
his lawyer about marriage settlements,—with
his wife about the last party, and
with his lady friends about velvet cloaks, and the
new third fiddler of the orchestra.

At this stage, he may be reckoned firmly and
fairly a leader of the ton; and he has only to show
himself liberal, to have his name heralded, or his

likeness cut for the Sunday Mercury; and very
especial services may secure to him the honor of a
statuette in the shop windows of the town.

His moneyed character is of course understood
to be beyond impeachment; or if some unfortunate
developments of an irksomely keen morning
paper, should make his name and note discredited
on 'Change, he has only to appear in a dignified,
exculpatory card, drafted by his lawyer,—to withdraw
his funds at the bank,—make over the result
of a few private transactions to his wife,—contract
a few debts of honor, from such friends as will not
bother him for pay, and live upon his wife's charity,—another
gorgeous, and dinner-loving martyr
to town speculation, and to bitter tongues.

This, as I am assured by my friend Tophanes, is
a fair representation of the usual growth; but the
exceptions are very various, and the grades of fashionable
men are very numerous. There are, for
instance,—the fashionable beaux, the fashionable
street-men, the fashionable authors, the fashionable
roués, the fashionable merchants, the fashionable
respectables, the fashionable defaulters, the fashionable
grocers, and the fashionable doctors. And
when I come to detail their characteristics at
length, they will, I am sure, my dear Fritz, amuse
you wonderfully.

I shall not venture to give you thus early any
sketch of the fashionable development in the women;
for since it is a more delicate matter, I
must make my observation a little finer, and have
a few more quiet talks with my old lady friend,
who as I told you, sometimes indulges me with a
ride in her britska. And I may further say, that
any advices in regard to this topic, from genteel
young women, of good taste and connections, will
be very gladly received. My friend Tophanes, who
is an up-town liver, has kindly volunteered to take
charge of any such communications as may be left
for John Timon, at the counter of Henry Kernot,
bookseller. He has, moreover, tendered his services
to make personal calls, between the hours of
twelve and three, upon such ladies as have anything
of a special nature to communicate. (Tophanes
moves in “top society,” and he will engage
to call, in blue coat with brass buttons, yellow
gloves, and a jaunty-looking hack; and if desired,
the coachman will wear a gilt band around his
hat.)

I am determined to spare no pains to make my
portraits of town life, true to the spirit of the times;
so that any future historian of our social growth,
may find in these humble papers, the material
suited to his purpose.