Dandy has been voted vulgar, and beau is now the word. I doubt whether
the revival will stand; and as for the exploded title, though it had its
faults at first, the muse or Byron has made it not only English, but
classical. However, I dare say I can do without either of these words at
present. Charles Annesley could hardly be called a dandy or a beau.
There was nothing in his dress, though some mysterious arrangement in
his costume--some rare simplicity--some curious happiness--always made
it distinguished; there was nothing, however, in his dress which could
account for the influence which he exercised over the manners of his
contemporaries. Charles Annesley was about thirty. He had inherited from
his father, a younger brother, a small estate; and though heir to a
wealthy earldom, he had never abused what the world called "his
prospects." Yet his establishments--his little house in Mayfair--his
horses--his moderate stud at Melton--were all unique, and everything
connected with him was unparalleled for its elegance, its invention, and
its refinement. But his manner was his magic. His natural and subdued
nonchalance, so different from the assumed non-emotion of a mere dandy;
his coldness of heart, which was hereditary, not acquired; his cautious
courage, and his unadulterated self-love, had permitted him to mingle
much with mankind without being too deeply involved in the play of their
passions; while his exquisite sense of the ridiculous quickly revealed
those weaknesses to him which his delicate satire did not spare, even
while it refrained from wounding. All feared, many admired, and none
hated him. He was too powerful not to dread, too dexterous not to
admire, too superior to hate. Perhaps the great secret of his manner was
his exquisite superciliousness; a quality which, of all, is the most
difficult to manage. Even with his intimates he was never confidential,
and perpetually assumed his public character with the private coterie
which he loved to rule. On the whole, he was unlike any of the leading
men of modern days, and rather reminded one of the fine gentlemen of our
old brilliant comedy--the Dorimants, the Bellairs, and the Mirabels.