Library Dandiacal

'The Beau Window'

Envisage a gaggle of grown men, sat snarking at almost anyone who dared pass before their gaze. A fashion jury of Regency London who would gather in the bow window of White's club and even induce the Duke of Wellington to harbour “a high opinion of that mysterious and terrible tribunal.”

The scathing governors of Regency style were eventually satirised by an equally observant wit, Henry Lutrell, whom Byron described as “the best sayer of good things, and the most epigrammatic conversationist I ever met.”

Luttrell's poetic Letters to Julia are described by the Dictionary of National Biography as “a brief society epic” containing “vignettes of London life” and also became known as “Letters from a Dandy to a Dolly.”

Much of Luttrell's terminolgy doesn't translate particularly well across the centuries; the first of the following excerpt trails-off towards stagecoach details ('Barker' being a prestigious manufacturer of the era: 'gig', 'Tilbury' and 'barouche' being particular types of carriage).

However, the rest is quite an amusing piece of 'poetic justice' ...

'Shot from yon heavenly Bow at White's,

No critic arrow yet alights

On some unconscious passer-by

Whose cape's an inch too low or high,

Whose doctrines are unsound in hat,

In boots, in trousers or cravat;

On him who braves the shame and guilt

Of gig or Tilbury ill-built,

Sports a barouche with panels darker

Than the last shade turned out by Barker,

Or canters with an awkward seat

Or badly mounted, up the street.'

'Silenced awhile that dreadful battery

Whence never issued sound of flattery,

That whole artillery of jokes

Levelled point-blank at hum-drum folks.'

And on the endless ingenuity required of adorning the perfect cravat!

'Have you, my friend', I've heard him say,

'Been lucky in your turns to-day?'

Think not that what I ask alludes

To fortune's stale vicissitudes.

The turns of your cravat, I mean,

Tell me if these have lucky been,

Have your attempts at one succeeded

Or (while an hour has passed unheeded

And unregretted) have you toiled

Till a week's laundrey has been soiled

Ere round your neck in every fold

Exact, the muslin has been rolled,

And, dexterously in front confined,

Has kept the proper set behind,

Not letting loose or pinning in

One jot too much of neck or chin.

Should yours (kind heaven avert the omen!)

Like the cravats of vulgar low men

Asunder start – and yawning wide

Disclose a chasm on either side

Letting behind its checkered screen

The secrets of your throat be seen

Or should it stubbornly persist

To take some awkward, tasteless twist,

Some crease indelible, and look

Just like a dunce's dog-eared book

How would you parry the disgrace?

In what assembly show your face?

How meet your rival's scornful glance

Or partner's titter in the dance?

How in the morning dare to meet

The quizzes of the park or street?

Your occupation's gone – in vain

Hope to dine out or flirt again!

The ladies from their lists will put you

And even I, my friend, must cut you.'