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.

THE FUSSY HOSTESS

Men shrink from a fussy woman.  And few can aspire to regulate the destinies of their species, even in so slight a point as an hour’s amusement, without rare powers.  There is no greater sin than to be trop prononcee.  A want of tact is worse than a want of virtue.  Some women, it is said, work on pretty well against the tide without the last.  I never knew one who did not sink who ever dared to sail without the first.