And such sons as some of them were too—­smart fellows, of whom the beau described in “The Careless Husband,” may be taken as an example:  one “that’s just come to a small estate, and a great perriwig—­he that sings himself among the women—­he won’t speak to a gentleman when a lord’s in company.  You always see him with a cane dangling at his button, his breast open, no gloves, one eye tuck’d under his hat, and a toothpick.”

What of the belles of the Bath?  They seem to have been much after the fashion of their modern sisters, with their harmless little vanities, their love of expensive finery, and their pretty eyes ever watching for the main chance, or a chance man.  Odsbodkins! but the world has changed very little, for even then we hear of dashing specimens of the New Woman, in the persons of ladies who affected men’s hats, feathers, coats, and perriwigs, to such an extent that our dear friend Addison will gently rebuke them during the reign of the Spectator.  He doubts if this masculinity will “smite more effectually their male beholders,” for how would the sweet creatures themselves be affected “should they meet a man on horseback, in his breeches and jack-boots, and at the same time dressed up in a commode[A] and a night raile?”

[Footnote A:  A cumbersome head-dress made of lace or muslin.]

How charming it would have been to watch the whole gay crew, just as Addison and Steele must have done, and to feel, like these two delightful philosophers, that you were a little above the surroundings.  Poor Dick Steele may not always have been above those surroundings; we can fancy him taking things comfortably in some tippling-house, red-faced, happy, and winey, but even the most puritanical of us will forgive him.  Read, by the way, what he says of the Spa’s morals[A]—­“I found a sober, modest man was always looked upon by both sexes as a precise, unfashioned fellow of no life or spirit.  It was ordinary for a man who had been drunk in good company, or.... to speak of it next day before women for whom he had the greatest respect.  He was reproved, perhaps, with a blow of the fan, or an ‘Oh, fy!’ but the angry lady still preserved an apparent approbation in her countenance.  He was called a strange, wicked fellow, a sad wretch; he shrugs his shoulders, swears, receives another blow, swears again he did not know he swore, and all was well.  You might often see men game in the presence of women, and throw at once for more than they were worth, to recommend themselves as men of spirit.  I found by long experience that the loosest principles and most abandoned behaviour carried all before them in pretentions to women of fortune.”

[Footnote A:  Spectator, No. 154.  Steele is writing as Simon Honeycomb.]