Beau Brummell Quotes

The natives knew better than to screw around with Tarzan. He was one bad dude. Lions, rhinos, just him and his knife. Great penthouse and elevator. Wouldnt last long in Brooklyn. Busted for indecent exposure. Me Tarzan you Judge. That is absolutely correct, and you are going to do sixty days. Try dressing as Beau Brummel the next time. Next case!

Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones — In fact, he's remarkably fat. He doesn't haunt pubs — he has eight or nine clubs, For he's the St. James's Street Cat! He's the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street In his coat of fastidious black: No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers Or such an impeccable back. In the whole of St. James's the smartest of names is The name of this Brummell of Cats; And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to By Bustopher Jones in white spats!

He keeps us waiting rather than wishing for him. I feel it a matter of perfect indifference whether he arrives at any moment or not at all.” — Lady Harriet Cavendish of George Beau Brummell

For, what is order without common sense, but Bedlam’s front parlor? What is imagination without common sense, but the aspiration to out-dandy Beau Brummell with nothing but a bit of faded muslin and a limp cravat? What is Creation without common sense, but a scandalous thing without form or function, like a matron with half a dozen unattached daughters? And God looked upon the Creation in all its delightful multiplicity, and saw that, all in all, it was quite Amiable.

Lady Shapster pointed a long finger at Eleanor. "You don't aspire to marry her." Eleanor wanted to leap at her, to stifle her and that dreadful, smooth, accusatory tone. Mr. Knight's lips drew back from his teeth, and his voice was scarcely audible when he said, "Do not tell me what I aspire to do. You know nothing about me or my aspirations. Now- you want to leave. I'll escort you to the door." "Such a scene," Beau Brummel murmured. "So sad when a noted beauty fades to infamy.

Etiquette decrees that when a man has pulled a lady from the mud three times, he’s permitted to address her in intimate terms.” Charlotte joined him on the bench, biting into her sandwich. Her nearness warmed his side. Convenience or progress? “I must have missed that one.” “One of Beau Brummell’s strictures,” he said, starting his lunch. She was right. The food was squashed, but at least it was dry. Right now, he was hungry enough to gnaw the leg off the table, and this simple fare was delicious. “And once the lady has returned the favor by assisting the gentleman after he’s fallen flat on his rump, she’s required to call him Ewan.” “Even if that’s not his name?” “Even so,” he said solemnly. She snickered and bumped him with her elbow. “You talk such nonsense.” “Och, you turn my brain to porridge, lassie. I lost all sense the moment I looked into your lovely eyes.” “More nonsense.” Silly

* Jag önskar så att uttrycka mig klart och bli förstådd i detta att jag ska riskera något löjligt. Jag ska sätta en not i noten.

Căci în talmeș-balmeșul social numit din politețe societate, aproape întotdeauna destinul joacă un rol mai important decât însușirile, sau invers, însușirile se dovedesc mai importante decât un destin

Beau Brummell was regarded as unbalanced in his passion for daily ablutions. His ritualistic morning toilet took upward of five hours, one hour spent inching himself into his skin-tight buckskin breeches, an hour with the hairdresser, and another two hours tying and "creasing down" a series of starched cravats until perfection was achieved. But first of all two hours were spent scrubbing himself with fetish zeal from head to toe in milk, water and eau de Cologne... Beau Brummel said he used only the froth of champagne to polish his Hessian boots. He had 365 snuff boxes, those suitable for summer wear being quite unthinkable in winter, and the fit of his gloves was achieved by entrusting their cut to two firms - one of the fingers, and the often for the thumbs. Sometimes, however, the tyranny of elegance became altogether insupportable. A mr. Boothby committed suicide and left a note saying he could no longer endure the ennui of buttoning and unbuttoning.

If people turn around to look at you on the street, you are not well dressed.

He was a celebrity, in the tradition of Lord Byron and Beau Brummell, but more Brummell than Byron, more style than substance. “Evidently I am ‘somebody,’” he noted at the time, “but what have I done? I’ve been ‘noticed.’ That is something, I suppose. And I have published one book of poems. That doesn’t amount to much.

Beau Brummel

Rory had a much better start in life than Anne had had. He was not only healthy and sociable, but so well-dressed that his father addressed him as Bub Brummell.