TABLE-TALK: No. VI. ON THE LOOK OF A GENTLEMAN. The nobleman-look ? Yes, I know what you mean very well: that look which a nobleman should have, rather than what they have generally now. The Duke of Buckingham (Sheffield *) was a genteel man, and had a great deal the look you speak of. Wycherley was a very genteel man, and had the nobleman-look as much as the Duke of Buckingham.-Pope. "He instanced it too in Lord Peterborough, Lord Bolingbroke, Lord Hinchinbroke, the Duke of Bolton, and two or three more." I HAVE chosen the above motto to a very delicate subject, which in prudence I might let alone. I, however, like the title; and will try, at least, to make a sketch of it. What it is that constitutes the look of a gentleman is more easily felt than described. We all know it when we see it, but do not know how to account for it, or to explain in what it consists. Causa latet, res ipsa notissima. Ease, grace, dignity, have been given as the exponents and expressive symbols of this look: but I would rather say, that an habitual self-possession determines the appearance of a gentleman. He should have the complete command, not only over his countenance, but over his limbs and motions. In other words, he should discover in his air and manner a voluntary power over his whole body, which, with every inflection of it, should be under the controul of his will. It must be evident that he looks and does as he likes, without any restraint, confusion, or awkwardness. He is, in fact, master of his person, as the professor of any art or science is of a particular instrument; he directs it to what use he pleases and intends. Wherever this power and facility appear, we recognise the look and deportment of the gentleman, that is, of a person who, by his habits and situation in life, and in his ordinary intercourse with society, has had little else to do than to study those movements, and that carriage of the body, which were accompanied with most satisfaction to himself, and were calculated to excite the approbation of the beholder. Spence's Anecdotes of Pope. Ease, it might be observed, is not enough; dignity is too much. There must be a certain retenu, a conscious decorum, added to the first,-and a certain "familiarity of regard, quenching the austere countenance of controul," in the other, to answer to our conception of this character. Perhaps, propriety is as near a word as any to denote the manners of the gentleman: elegance is necessary to the fine gentleman; dignity is proper to noblemen; and majesty to kings! Wherever this constant and decent subjection of the body to the mind is visible in the customary actions of walking, sitting, riding, standing, speaking, &c. we draw the same conclusion as to the person,-whatever may be the impediments or unaviodable defects in the machine of which he has the management. A man may have a mean or disagreeable exterior, may halt in his gait, or have lost the use of half his limbs; and yet he may show this habitual attention to what is graceful and becoming in the use he makes of all the power he has left, in the " nice conduct" of the most unpromising and impracticable figure. A hump-backed or deformed man does not necessarily look like a clown or a mechanic: on the contrary, from his care in the adjustment of his appearance, and his desire to remedy his defects, he, for the most part, acquires something of the look of a gentleman. The common nickname of My Lord, applied to such persons, has allusion to this-to their studied deportment, and tacit resistance to vulgar prejudice. Lord Ogleby, in the Clandestine Marriage, is Quere, Villiers, because in another place it is said, that "when the latter entered he presence-chamber, he attracted all eyes by the handsomeness of his person, and the gracefulness of his demeanour." as crazy a piece of elegance and refinement, even after he is "wound up for the day," as can well be imagined: yet, in the hands of a genuine actor, his tottering step, his twitches of the gout, his unsuccessful attempts at youth and gaiety, take nothing from the nobleman. He has the ideal model in his mind, resents his deviations from it with proper horror, recovers himself from any ungraceful action as soon as possible; does all he can with his limited means, and fails in his just pretensions, not from inadvertence, but necessity. Sir Joseph Banks, who was almost bent double, retained to the last the look of a privy-counsellor. There was all the firmness and dignity that could be given by the sense of his own importance to so distorted and disabled a trunk. Sir Charles B-nb-ry, as he saunters down St. James's-street, with a large slouched hat, a lack lustre eye, and aquiline nose, an old shabby drab-coloured coat, buttoned across his breast without a cape, with old top-boots, and his hands in his waist-coat or breeches pockets, as if he was strolling along his own garden-walks, or over the turf at Newmarket, after having made his bets secure, presents nothing very dazzling, or graceful, or dignified to the imagination; though you can tell infallibly at the first glance, or even a bow-shot off, that he is a gentleman of the first water (the same that sixty years ago married the beautiful Lady Sarah L-nn-x, with whom the king was in love). What is the clue to this mystery? It is evident that his person costs him no more trouble than an old glove. His limbs are, as it were, left to take care of themselves: they move of their own accord: he does not strut or stand on tip-toe to show how tall dress may be understood to denote a lingering partiality for the costume of the last age, and something like a prescriptive contempt for the finery of this. The old one-eyed Duke of Queensbury is another example that I might quote: as he sat in his bowwindow in Piccadilly, erect and emaciated, he seemed like a nobleman framed and glazed, or a well-dressed mummy of the court of George II! His person is above them all ;but he seems to find his own level, and, wherever he is, to slide into his place naturally: he is equally at home among lords or gamblers: nothing can discompose his fixed serenity of look and purpose: there is no mark of superciliousness about him, nor does it appear as if any thing could meet his eye to startle or throw him off his guard: he neither avoids nor courts notice; but the archaism of his We have few of these precious specimens of the gentleman or nobleman-look now remaining: other considerations have set aside the exclusive importance of the character, and, of course, the jealous attention to the outward expression of it. Where we oftenest meet with it now-a-days, is, perhaps, in the butlers in old families, or the valets, and "gentlemen's gentlemen," in the younger branches. The sleek pursy gravity of the one answers to the stately air of some of their quondam masters; and the flippancy and finery of our old-fashioned beaux, having been discarded by the heirs to the title and estate, have been retained by their lacqueys. The late Admiral Byron (I have heard N say) had a butler, or steward, who, from constantly observing his master, had so learned to mimic him-the look, the manner, the voice, the bow were so alike he was so "subdued to the very quality of his lord"-that it was difficult to distinguish them apart. Our modern footmen, as we see them fluttering and lounging in lobbies, or at the doors of ladies' carriages, bedizened in lace and powder, with ivory-headed cane and embroidered gloves, give one the only idea of the fine gentlemen of former periods, as they are still occasionally represented on the stage; and indeed our theatrical heroes, who top such parts, might be supposed to have copied, as a last resource, from the heroes of the shoulderknot. We also sometimes meet with a straggling personation of this character, got up in common life from pure romantic enthusiasm, and on absolutely ideal principles. I recollect a well-grown, comely haberdasher, who made a practice of walking every day from Bishop'sgate-street to Pall-mall and Bondstreet, with the undaunted air and strut of a general-officer; and also a prim undertaker, who regularly ten dered his person, whenever the weather would permit, from the neighbourhood of Camberwell into the favourite promenades of the city, with a mincing gait that would have become a gentleman-usher of the black-rod. What a strange infatuation to live in a dream of being taken for what one is not,-in deceiving others, and at the same time ourselves; for, no doubt, these persons believed that they thus appeared to the world in their true characters, and that their assumed pretensions did no more than justice to their real merits! Dress makes the man, and want of it the fellow : The rest is all but leather and prunella. I confess, however, that I admire this look of a gentleman, more when it rises from the level of common life, and bears the stamp of intellect, than when it is formed out of the mould of adventitious circumstances. I think more highly of Wycherley than I do of Lord Hinchinbroke, for looking like a lord. In the one, it was the effect of native genius, grace, and spirit; in the other, comparatively speaking, of pride or custom. A visitor complimenting Voltaire on the growth and flourishing condition of some trees in his grounds "Aye," said the French wit, "they have nothing else to do!" A lord has nothing to do but to look like a lord: our comic poet had something else to do, and did it! * Though the disadvantages of nature or accident do not act as obstacles to the look of a gentleman, those of education and employment do. A shoe-maker, who is bent in two over his daily task; taylor, who sits cross-legged all day; a ploughman, who wears clog-shoes over the furrowed miry soil, and can hardly drag his feet after him; a scholar, who has pored all his life over books,are not likely to possess that natural freedom and ease, or to pay that strict attention to personal appearances, that the look of a gentleman implies. I might add, that a manmilliner behind a counter, who is compelled to show every mark of complaisance to his customers, but hardly expects common civility from them in return; or a sheriff's officer, who has a consciousness of power, but none of good-will to or from any body,-are equally remote from the beau ideal of this character. A man who is awkward from bashfulness is a clown, as one who is showing off a number of impertinent airs and graces at every turn is a coxcomb, or an upstart. Mere awkwardness, or rusticity of behaviour, may arise, either from want of presence of mind in the company of our betters, (the commonest hind goes about his regular business without any of the mauvaise honte,)-from a deficiency of breeding (as it is called) in not having been taught certain fashionable accomplishments-or from unremitting application to certain sorts of mechanical labour, unfitting the body for general or indifferent uses. (That vulgarity which proceeds from a total disregard of decorum, and want of careful controul over the different actions of the body-such as loud speaking, boisterous gesticulations, &c.-is rather rudeness and violence than awkwardness, or uneasy restraint.) Now the gentleman is free from all these causes of ungraceful demeanour. He is independent in his circumstances, and is used to enter into society on equal terms; he is taught the modes of address, and forms of courtesy, most commonly practised, and most proper to ingratiate him into the good opinion of those he associates with; and he is relieved from the necessity of following any of those laborious trades, or callings, which cramp, strain, and distort the human frame. He is not bound to do any one earthly thing; to use any exertion, or put himself in any posture, that is not perfectly easy and graceful, agreeable and becoming. Neither is he at present required to excel in any art or science, game or exercise. He is supposed qualified to dance a minuet, not to dance on the tight rope-to stand upright, not to stand on his head. He has only to sacrifice to the Graces. Alcibiades threw away a flute, because the playing on it discomposed his features. Take the fine gentleman out of the common boardingschool or drawing-room accomplishments, and set him to any ruder or more difficult task, and he will make * Wycherley was a great favourite with the Duchess of Cleveland. but a sorry figure. Ferdinand in the Tempest, when he is put by Prospero to carry logs of wood, does not strike us as a very heroical character, though he loses nothing of the king's son. If a young gallant of the first fashion were asked to shoe a horse, or hold a plough, or fell a tree, he would make a very awkward business of the first experiment. I saw a set of young naval officers, very genteel-looking young men, playing at rackets not long ago, and it is impossible to describe the uncouthness of their motions, and unaccountable contrivances for hitting the ball.Something effeminate as well as common-place, then, enters into the composition of the gentleman: he is a little of the petit-maître in his pretensions. He is only graceful and accomplished in those things to which he has paid almost his whole attention, such as the carriage of his body, and adjustment of his dress; and to which he is of sufficient importance in the scale of society to attract the idle attention of others. en A man's manner of presenting himself in company is but a superficial test of his real qualifications. Serjeant Atkinson, we are assured by Fielding, would have marched, at the head of his platoon, up to a masked battery, with less apprehension than he came into a room full of pretty women. So we may sometimes see persons look foolish enough on tering a party, or returning a salutation, who instantly feel themselves at home, and recover all their selfpossession, as soon as any of that sort of conversation begins from which nine-tenths of the company retire in the extremest trepidation, lest they should betray their ignorance or incapacity. A high spirit and stubborn pride are often accompanied with an unprepossessing and unpretending appearance. The greatest heroes do not show it by their looks.-There are individuals of a nervous habit, who might be said to abhor their own persons, and to startle at their own appearance, as the peacock tries to hide its legs. They are always shy, uncomfortable, restless; and all their actions are, in a manner, at cross-purposes with themselves. This, of course, destroys the look we are speaking of, from the want of ease and selfconfidence. There is another sort who have too much negligence of manner and contempt for formal punctilios. They take their full swing in whatever they are about, and make it seem almost necessary to get out of their way.--Perhaps something of this bold, licentious, slovenly, lounging character may be objected by a fastidious eye to the appearance of Lord C. It might be said of him, without disparagement, that he looks more like a lord than like a gentleman. We see nothing petty or finical, assuredly,--nothing hard-bound or reined-in,--but a flowing outline, a broad, free style. He sits in the House of Commons, with his hat slouched over his forehead, and a sort of stoop in his shoulders, as if he cowered over his antagonists, like a bird of prey over its quarry,—" hatching vain empires." There is an irregular grandeur about him, an unwieldy power, loose, disjointed, "voluminous and vast,' -coiled up in the folds of. its own purposes,-cold, death-like, smooth, and smiling-that is neither quite at ease with itself, nor safe for others to approach! On the other hand, there is the Marquis Wellesley, a jewel of a man. He advances into his place in the House of Lords, with head erect, and his best foot foremost. The star sparkles on his breast, and the garter is seen bound tight below his knee. It might be thought that he still trod a measure on soft carpets, and was surrounded, not only by spiritual and temporal lords, but Stores of ladies, whose bright eyes The chivalrous spirit that shines through him, the air of gallantry in his personal as well as rhetorical appeals to the House, glances a partial lustre on the Woolsack as he addresses it; and makes Lord Erskine raise his sunken head from a dream of transient popularity. His heedless vanity throws itself unblushingly on the unsuspecting candour of his hearers, and ravishes mute admiration. You would almost guess of this nobleman, beforehand that he was a Marquis-something higher than an Earl, and less important than a Duke. Nature has just fitted him for the niche he fills in the scale of rank or title. He is a finished miniature picture set in brilliants: Lord C- - might be compared to a loose sketch in oil, not properly hung. The character of the one is ease, of the other elegance. Elegance is something more than ease; it is more than a freedom from awkwardness or restraint. It implies, I conceive, a precision, a polish, a sparkling effect, spirited, yet delicate, which is perfectly exemplified in Lord Wellesley's face and figure. The greatest contrast to this little lively nobleman, was the late Lord Stanhope. Tall above his peers, he presented an appearance something between a Patagonian chief and one of the Long Parliament. With his long black hair, unkempt and wildhis black clothes, lank features, strange antics, and screaming voice, he was the Orson of debate. A Satyr that comes staring from the woods, eye. The look of the gentleman," the nobleman-look," is little else than the reflection of the looks of the world. We smile at those who smile upon us: we are gracious to those who pay their court to us: we naturally acquire confidence and ease when all goes well with us, when we are encouraged by the flatteries of fortune, and the good opinion of mankind. A whole street bowing regularly to a man every time he rides out, may teach him how to pull off his hat in return, without supposing a particular genius for bowing (more than for governing, or any thing else) born in * Roscommon's Translation of Horace's Art of Poetry. |