University of Virginia Library

OLD BEAUX.

I now and then meet, dear Fritz, with some old
vestiges of the beau-craft, which existed twenty years
ago. They were nearly my contemporaries, it is

true, but they have much the advantage of me in
having kept up an acquaintance with the beau
monde of the town, while I have been wandering,
—Heaven knows where. They are quite curious
specimens of our kind, and are deserving of one of
those accurate observations, which my lorgnette is
sure to furnish.

With no great physical attractions, they yet
dress in the top style;—perhaps sport a beard, or
imperial, or both, to conceal the lines which age
has wrought in their chins. They use the best
pomades on the town, and are capital authorities
for whoever is on the look-out for a good tailor, boot-maker,
or barber. They sneer, of course, at what
they call the frippery of the day, and are particular
in their attentions to very young ladies. They
are usually club-men, and assume a sort of dignity
and importance in the reading-room and restaurant,
which is graciously accorded them. They play a
good hand of whist, at a quarter the corner, with
some old-fashioned observances in the game, which
would not have done discredit to Mrs. Battle.
They take, too, a quiet pleasure in an occasional
half hour at `old sledge.'

They make excellent diners-out, and are sure to
fish up an invitation or two a week, from some of
their former companions, who have now homes of

their own. They take the liberty of cracking very
bold jokes with their friends' wives; and are partial
to `old particular' Madeira. They, of course, are
full of anecdotes, more especially of that equivocal
sort, which follows the retirement of the ladies,
and which, for one hearing, are quite passable.
They are full of wise saws about government and
society; and are exceedingly violent in their ridicule
of the parvenus of the day. Though they are
not partial to parties,—most of them having become
slightly rheumatic,—they pay evening calls, and
are particularly earnest in their movements among
the boxes at the Opera House.

They are great admirers of beauty,—make frequent
mention of the favors they have received
from certain ladies, `they would not like to name,'
and are particularly delighted when they are accused
in private conversation, of being `dangerous
dogs.' They talk of marriage as if every lady of
the town was on the qui vive to possess them, and
as if they had still fair prospects of a numerous
and stalwart progeny. They are great favorites at
tea-parties, where spinsters congregate, and can
handle a pair of sugar-tongs as daintily as their
own legs. They are dabsters at a compliment;
and some few of a literary turn, have been known
on special occasions to make sonnets, scarce inferior

to those of Mr. Benjamin. They have no
charity for the small fry of authorlings, which
swarm upon the town; and abuse them all in round
style.

They know, of course, nearly all the world, and
sneer very confidently at the few whom they do not
know. They talk in a familiar strain with clergymen
and editors of popular journals; and they cultivate
a certain indifference and carelessness of
manner in the bar-rooms, and in the street, which
is quite remarkable. Nothing disturbs them more
than to fall in with a really earnest man, who is
disposed by his talk to prick them out of their lethargic
state, and to try the metal of their old coin of
opinion; they have no means of dealing with such a
fellow, but to condemn him as a flippant coxcomb.
They affect an uncommon knowledge of French,
and of all the finer accomplishments; they are quick
to detect, what they reckon breaches of etiquette,
and are precise—even to pocketing a dry crust at
table, to clean their white gloves for an evening.

They manage to get an introduction to most of
the reigning belles, and talk much about them,
though they know very little. They call themselves
connoisseurs in brandy and paintings; and have
a peculiarly sweet tooth for French entremets; and
such as have an unpronounceable name, they think

very fine. They wear a heavy signet ring, and cultivate
a delectable familiarity with house-maids,
and opera-singers. They assume a very patronizing
way with the daughters of their old friends,—
call them by their first names,—will sometimes
venture a kiss,—write them valentines, and give
them small presents of bijouterie.

They pride themselves hugely on a handsome
foot, a genteel figure, or a very bushy beard; and
express plaintive regrets for the great number of
young women whom they have unsuspectingly
made unhappy. They are fond of showing their
friends little billets, directed in a very delicate
hand-writing, and though they do not exhibit their
contents, they wink in a way that makes one sympathize
deeply with the unfortunate victims of their
address, and agreeable qualities. They have a
carefully cultivated laugh, and if their teeth remain
sound, it is open-mouthed. They are of
course very jocular and gay-humored, and are
careful to conceal their occasional sighs; they do
not like to read very fine print. They write very
delicate notes of acceptance to evening entertainments
and dinner parties, and seal with a very
large private seal. They commit to memory the
best portions of the musical critiques in the newspapers,
and yet sneer at the critics as poor starveling

vagabonds; they adopt the editorials of the
Journal of Commerce on matters of trade, and yet
turn up their noses at the opinions of the press.

As for profession, they are very likely (living on
a snug two thousand a year) above that sort of
thing; or perhaps, are plethoric bill-brokers, or
silent partners in a jobbing concern, or small lawyers
with a great many trusteeships in their hands,
or doctors who visit respectable old dowagers, that
have been lingering under hypochondriasis for an
indefinite period of time.

And one of these very old beaux will read the
Lorgnette over his cigar at the Club-house—his
remainder bottle of port at his side,—his head inclining
back,—his varnished boots upon a chair,
and with the most self-satisfied air in the world
will condemn the writer to perdition as an arrant
literary coxcomb; — never once imagining that
John Timon is perhaps his senior by half a score,
that he has helped him out of innumerable scrapes,
and has very possibly seen as much of the world
about us, as he or any of his fraternity.

Pray take it kindly, old fellow; don't let your
asthma or weakness in the joints annoy you too
much; semel senescimus omnes!

There are old belles, too, my dear Fritz, who are
biding their time; and when the humor is upon

me, you shall have their portraits, even to the color
of their eyes, and of their stockings.