Amidst the various objects which men have pursued in search of happiness the Mirage of Fashion may be first named. In every age, a large portion of mankind have fixed their affections on the pleasures of dress, frivolous amusements, and trifling gaiety. That man, formed with such high capacities for moral and intellectual enjoyment, should have narrowed his mind to such pursuits is indeed surprising; that he should have expected happiness in them is still more so. The illusion, it might have been supposed, would at once have been detected and the pursuit abandoned. Experience has shown, however, that the numbers are not small of those who have deliberately sought to pervert life to this end. At this moment there are multitudes whose sole aim is to mix in what is termed "good society;" who leave the circle in which God has fitted them to be useful and vainly endeavor to court the favor of those who secretly despise them; who are the slaves of etiquette; who dread what is vulgar much more than what is sinful, and who sacrifice to the cruel idol of fashion usefulness, self-respect, and peace. As a terrible warning to all such stands forth the career of GEORGE BRUMMELL, or, The Man of Fashion.
This remarkable man was born towards the end of the eighteenth century, and, at the early age of sixteen, received a commission as officer in a regiment of Hussars, in which his taste for dress found ample means of gratification. He may be said to have entered life with the full flowing tide of prosperity. He was the favorite of his brother officers. Royalty itself smiled upon him; and he soon became distinguished for his fashionable manners, refinement of taste, a delicate vein of satire, and a spirit of affectation blended with quaint humor. At the age of twenty-one he succeeded to property of the value of £30,000, principally in ready money. Being now master of his own time, he resolved to devote himself wholly to a life of fashion. Unhappy choice! Could anyone with prophetic vision have unrolled the future before him, he would have started back from the prospect in horror. A taste in matters of dress was that for which he first labored to be distinguished, and that so successfully, that the tailors of the metropolis soon learned to regulate the fashions by his decision. The Prince Regent himself would occasionally attend his dressing-room for an hour in the morning to watch the mysterious grace with which he discharged the duties of the toilet. As Watt was celebrated in the world of science for the invention of the steam-engine, so was Brummell in the world of fashion for the invention of starched neck cloths. "Call you this nothing?" observes a satirical writer; "I have known many a man with £10,000 a year who never did anything half so useful to his fellow-creatures.”
Brummell was, through his intimacy with the Prince Regent, admitted to the highest circles of the nobility. No party was complete without him, and the morning papers, in giving the details of a rout, always placed his name first on the list of untitled guests. He became remarkable for his pretensions to extraordinary refinement, and his freedom from everything that could be termed vulgar. Being asked what was a fair annual allowance to a young man for clothes, he answered that £800 a year might do with strict economy. He pretended to be ignorant of the exact geographical position of a place called "The City," and being asked if he were fond of vegetables, answered after a due pause for recollection that he believed he had once eaten a pea. Not contented with being admitted to the world of fashion, Brummell aimed at being its dictator, and in this he effectually succeeded. For years he gave the law to the highest fashionable circles. A nobleman would think himself honored by having his arm during a stroll down St. James' Street, and a duchess would tremble at his decision as what would stamp her unfashionable or otherwise. Such was Beau Brummell in the height of his glory as a man of fashion: the leader of ton, the patron of noblemen, the despot of the realms of taste. What a poor and contemptible life! What a waste of existence! But was he happy? Ah, no! Proud and vain, he imagined that his success would continue unbroken; but he was soon to discover that all was evanescent as the mirage.
Leaving St. James' Street and its fashionable idlers, we must now ask our readers to turn their attention to a provincial town in France. Who is this old man that, in ragged clothes and with tottering steps, walks feebly along the streets surrounded by children who mock and jeer at him as he goes? His face is familiar to us, and his air amidst his wretchedness and poverty speaks of days gone by when better times were his. It is Brummell, the man of fashion, fallen from his high estate! Embarrassed by his extravagance, he had to flee to the Continent, where, deserted by hollow friends, he fell from one degree of wretchedness to another. For a while he pursued, on a diminished scale, his former course, but was at last arrested for debt. His agitation on this occasion was extreme, and he gave way to a burst of tears. Resistance was vain, however, and the merry butterfly of fashion found himself the inmate of a wretched and squalid jail. By some kind individuals he was released from this abode of misery, but misfortune failed to teach him reflection.
He still retained the tastes of his earlier years, though unable from circumstances to gratify them. When at the lowest point of financial distress, he could with difficulty be persuaded, although almost in want of the common necessaries of life, to forego the use of some fashionable blacking which cost five shillings a bottle. Forsaken and forgotten by the sunshine of friends of his prosperity, Brummell became to a considerable extent dependent on the kindness of a grocer, one from those humble classes at whose vulgarity he had so often sneered. He who had affected such great fastidiousness in his culinary tastes was glad to obtain a meal at a tradesman's board; and he, too, who had said that it was possible for a man to dress on £800 a year with strict economy, was indebted to a compassionate tailor for mending the holes in his garments, at which time, for lack of change of raiment, he was obliged to remain in bed until his clothes were returned to him. "He had now," says his biographer, "passed the point at which he was the personification of a broken gentleman." He became a complete slob. The last remnant of self-respect abandoned him, and, unable to obtain credit, he would beg at a shop for articles for which he was no longer able to pay.
His mind was weakened by his misfortunes, and in his lonely apartment, he would at times imagine that he was giving one of his fashionable parties. His attendant, who humored him, would announce the arrival of the Duchess of Devonshire, or some distinguished visitor. Rising up, the poor Beau would salute the empty air with ceremonious politeness; then, as if aware of his fallen position, his eyes would fill with childish tears. At ten o'clock the carriages of his imaginary visitors were announced, and the farce was at an end.
Such was Beau Brummell in his fall. Further misfortunes, however, were yet to come. Brummell's reason having partially failed, he was taken to a hospital for the mentally ill. (An English clergyman, who visited him when near his death, spoke to him of the Lord, hoping that there might be some exercise as to his eternal welfare.) It was, however, all in vain. "Never," says the visitor, who was familiar with the treatment of the insane, "never did I come in contact with such an exhibition of vanity and thoughtlessness. In reply to my entreaties that he would pray, he said, 'I do try;' but he added something which made me doubt whether he understood my meaning." Shortly after this visit, his nurse observed him assume an appearance of extreme anxiety. He fixed his eyes upon her as if asking for assistance. She made him repeat some form of prayer; then, turning on his side, he died.
Such was the end of the man of fashion. We pause not to moralize on his melancholy career—on the exhibition of selfishness, wasted time, and squandered powers which it presents. He had devoted himself to the slavery of fashion, and in the end he discovered that he had been deluded by the mirage.