hree fourths
of the competitors died half-way in the hippodrome. What is now the
Dandy was then the Buck; and something of the Buck, though subdued by
a chaster taste than fell to the ordinary members of his class, was
apparent in Mr. Vernon's costume as well as air. Intricate folds of
muslin, arranged in prodigious bows and ends, formed the cravat, which
Brummell had not yet arisen to reform; his hat, of a very peculiar
shape, low at the crown and broad at the brim, was worn with an air of
devil-me-care defiance; his watch-chain, garnished with a profusion of
rings and seals, hung low from his white waistcoat; and the adaptation
of his nankeen inexpressibles to his well-shaped limbs was a masterpiece
of art. His whole dress and air was not what could properly be called
foppish, it was rather what at that time was called "rakish." Few could
so closely approach vulgarity without being vulgar: of that privileged
few, Mr. Vernon was one of the elect.

Farther on, and near the steps descending into the garden, stood a man
in an attitude of profound abstraction, his arms folded, his eyes bent
on the ground, his brows slightly contracted; his dress was a plain
black surtout, and pantaloons of the same colour. Something both in the
fashion of the dress, and still more in the face of the man, bespoke the
foreigner.

Sir Miles St. John was an accomplished person for that time of day. He
had made the grand tour; he had bought pictures and statues; he spoke
and wrote well in the modern languages; and being rich, hospitable,
social, and not averse from the reputation of a patron, he had opened
his house freely to the host of emigrants whom the French Revolution had
driven to our coasts. Olivier Dalibard, a man of considerable learning
and rare scientific attainments, had been tutor in the house of the
Marquis de G----, a French nobleman known many years before to the old
baronet. The marquis and his family had been among the first emigres at
the outbreak of the Revolution. The tutor had remained behind; for at
that time no danger appeared to threaten those who pretended to no other
aristocracy than that of letters. Contrary, as he said, with repentant
modesty, to his own inclinations, he had been compelled, not only for
his own safety, but for that of his friends, to take some part in the
subsequent events of the Revolution,--a part far from sincere, though
so well had he simulated the patriot that he had won the personal
favour