within the prodigious lappels of his external habit, like a flea in St. Paul's, or Gulliver in the embraces of Glumdalclitch. His neck enveloped in muslin manifold, rose above his humble collar, "like the tower of Lebanon which looketh towards Damascus." But an invention which he hit on, for the decoration of his nether limbs, was indeed a chef-d'œuvre. Entertaining a high opinion of the symmetry of this part of his person, he longed to reveal its graceful proportions in the seductive transparencies of stocking-web. His uncle, who was something of a dandy, gave him an opportunity of gratifying this penchant by the present of a pair of cast-off tights. These, though somewhat large, Hugh contrived, by his sartorial dexterity, to adapt tolerably well to his own person. But on trying them on, though highly gratified by the contemplation of the femur and tibia, he found that something was still wanting to the perfection of their developement. Our desires increase with our possessions, and every new gratification gives birth to a fresh necessity. Hugh soon discovered that tight pantaloons without Hessian boots were as preposterous as a haunch of venison without currant-jelly, or a leg of pork without peas-pudding. They were, in truth, natural correlatives, coefficient quantities, mutually attractive, conductors to each other, their separation was violent, dangerous, improper, sacrilegious! But how to effect the desired union ? Boots were dear, Hugh was poor; his uncle had no Hessians to spare, and his father's heart and purse were equally closed against him. He must either wear the pantaloons without boots (a thing not to be thought of) or steal a pair. Dire dilemma! diabolical alternative! But the genius of dandyism descended kindly to his aid, and opportunely rescued her ardent votary from the hazard of crime and the mortification of disappointment. As Hugh cast around

"His baleful eyes,

That witness'd huge affliction and dismay,"

he suddenly espied his buff-leather gaiters, which hung upon a peg above his head. An idea flashed across his brain like lightning-one of those felicitous conceptions of genius, perfect as if matured by years of thought, sudden as inspiration! He seized the gaiters, posted to a cobler, had them cut out into the shape of Hessian boots at top, blackened, polished, decked with tassels. What need of more words? Nothing could be more complete. The following day was Sunday. He appeared at church in complete costume,-cocked chapeau, pudding-cravat, red waistcoat, fireman's jacket, brown-coloured tights, and gaiter-boots, the admiration of himself the derision of many-the astonishment of all!

But the hour was at hand when Hugh was to cast his slough, to unfold his glittering scales in the sunbeam, to burst the dark prison of his chrysalis for ever, and issue forth an airy butterfly in all the colours of the rainbow. His father, who was much more sincerely devoted to Mammon than to God, undertook a voyage to Smyrna in quest of gain. The prince of air, who thought it high time to appropriate his destined prey, raised a storm and plunged the Methodistic merchant in the deep. Hugh was sole heir of all his wealth, which was considerable, and as the trustees of the property did not pretend to

any control over his conduct, this hopeful youth was left at the age

of seventeen

"Lord of himself, that heritage of woe."

His first step was to enter the army, a measure of which he would not have dared to whisper during the lifetime of his father. He got into a dashing regiment of light-infantry, and soon became distinguished for the most extravagant foppery. Not contented with the costume of his corps, which was elegant and splendid, he was perpetually making such alterations and additions as his own whim suggested. His capricious taste in this way subjected him to frequent reprimands and arrests for the violation of the regimental orders. His offences became at last so frequent and so flagrant, that the colonel, much of a martinet, told him that he must leave the regiment unless he thought proper to conform to its regulations of dress. Hugh promised obedience, and for a while was less open in his transgressions. But his ruling passion was too strong to be controlled for any length of time. He went to a garrison-ball in a fantastic costume which bore a caricatured resemblance to the uniform of his corps. The first person he met there was the colonel, who insisted on his leaving the room immediately; and as colonels seldom experience much difficulty in the removal of an obnoxious su▾ baltern, his exit from the regiment very speedily followed his exit from the ball. He was, in fact, advised to tender his resignation; and he had too much knowledge of the army not to feel the propriety of fol lowing this judicious counsel.

Hugh was not very seriously concerned for the loss of his commission, as it left him "fancy free" to pursue his devious courses through the fields of foppery and fashion. He repaired to London, and soon became the very mirror of fantastic coxcombry. He had his day like other dogs, and the time has been when the promenades of Bond-street and Hyde-park would have been deemed to want their most essential attraction in the absence of "the original Hugh Peters." But, alas for human eminence, and the degeneracy of present times! The "lights of the world and demigods of fame" have quitted the stage for ever, and the fashionable, like the political horizon, is left in a feeble twilight, the precursor, it is to be feared, of a long night of Egyptian darkness. Brummel is extinct, Van Butchell in his grave. Sir L—, like another Ovid in Pontus, is exiled to the ungenial climate of St. George's, where he pours his unavailing "tristia,” and stoops indeed, but, alas, no more to conquer! Baron Geramb is gone, and the gallant gay "Lothario" is sobered down into "Benedick, the married man." We listen in vain for the rattling of his chariot-wheels, and the highcrested cock has now become an empty name. Finally, Hugh Peters himself hath passed away, and the flags of Bond-street have forgot his steps!

Hugh was, at this time, more remarkable for the singularity than the taste of his costume. He delighted in glaring colours, and a close fit he considered the "summum bonum." His motions were dreadfully constrained by the tightness of his dress, and the various organic functions seriously impeded. To button his coat required an effort almost superhuman. His inexpressibles (horresco referens) were perpetually yielding to the force of pressure, and leaving him exposed in some vital part. The tarsus, metatarsus, and toes, sustained infinite damage from the compressive action of the boot, and the uncomfortable pro

jection of a heel three inches high. His feet became pleasingly variegated with corns and bunnions, and were soon reduced to a state of premature superannuation.

I shall not speedily forget the first time I had the honour of beholding Hugh Peters. He was in full dress for the pit of the Opera. His coat was of the genuine Pomona-green, with a collar reaching to the crown of his head, basket-worked buttons made of silver, and skirts lined with white silk. His waistcoat was white, richly embroidered, and studded with three rows of small yellow buttons. Inside this were two more, cushioned and quilted, the one of scarlet silk, the other of skyblue. Canary-coloured small-clothes, with flesh-coloured silk-stockings, decorated his nether limbs; and a pump, which might emulate a vice, with a diamond buckle, showed his almost Chinese foot to exquisite advantage. His cravat, which at the least he took an hour to adjust, was fastened in the centre with a large emerald, and beneath it a waving banner of frill sported in the wanton zephyrs. A gold eyeglass with a red riband, white kid-gloves, and inordinate chapeaubras -the portrait is finished.

Hitherto Hugh had given more attention to his person than his face; and, coxcomb as he was, he had still much to learn in the minuter details of dandyism. Critically nice in the cut and fashion of his apparel, he was but a novice in the mysteries of the cosmetic art, his practice in this way scarcely extending beyond the more ordinary processes of ablution. He had, besides, certain prepossessions to overcome on this score. Notwithstanding the latitude of his foppery, he conceived that there was a fixed boundary beyond which it must not extend, and where manliness would say, "thus far shalt thou go and no farther." He would wear, for instance, a coat tight enough almost to check respiration, but would shudder at the thought of a pair of stays. He might employ an hour in brushing his hair, but he would turn with loathing from the idea of painting his face. But it is the character of every folly, and of every vice, to increase, unless the growth be timely and effectually prevented. The incipient gangrene must be met with the knife and the cautery. Hugh's attention was first directed to his visage by some one remarking that his eyebrows were rather light. There could be nothing unmanly in adding to the expression of the countenance, to which dark eyebrows so materially contributed. He began first by pencilling, next proceeded to painting, and lastly to staining his brows, with a variety of deleterious composts. He became the dupe of advertising impostors, and the most absurd distresses were the frequent result of his ill-judged experiments. In the course of a few months his brows had successively assumed all the colours of the rainbow, to the vast amusement of his friends, and his own ineffable inconvenience. He persevered, however, with a constancy worthy of a better cause, and at last hit upon a composition which produced the proper hue; but after a few applications utterly destroyed the hair, and left him literally browless! His only resource was a pair of artificial eyebrows, which formed, as may be supposed, but an imperfect deception, and an insecure substitute for the natural.

Hugh's next discovery was, that a smooth skin and clear complexion were essentials of beauty. His toilet was soon loaded with cold cream, milk of roses, botanic bloom, eau de Cologne, and soaps of all sono

rous titles borrowed from "the rich orient," and of a variety of shades of colour and degrees of fragrance. His hands now came in for their share of attention, and he consumed immense quantities of almond paste and white wax. Not satisfied with topical applications for the purpose of improving his appearance, he used warm baths, had himself blooded and physicked regularly with the same view. He consumed three estates, which he inherited, in the expenses of the toilet. When destitute of money, he ran in debt to gratify his vanity; and for some years previous to his death he supported his elegant appearance by certain financial measures, to which, peradventure, a fastidious moralist might attach an impolite epithet. Confined in the Bench, he used to saunter about, in a rich robe de chambre, green velvet-cap, and red slippers, with an immense Turkish pipe in his mouth, from which he exhaled not "Mundungus' ill-perfuming scents," but green tea! He debilitated his frame by the use of medicine, and contracted complaints in his side and chest from continual pressure.

Dandyism is in youth only ridiculous; in age it is contemptible. We have attempted the portrait of Hugh in his earlier days. At fifty he was the most artificially constructed being in existence; he was made up from head to foot. He wore a wig, false eyebrows, false whiskers, and false mustachios. He had a complete set of false teeth, his cheeks and lips were painted, and the furrows beneath his eyes were filled up with a white paste. His clothes were stuffed out at the chest and shoulders, his waist was tightened in with stays, and he had false calves to his legs. He was altogether a walking deception-a complete lie from top to toe-a finished specimen of that most despicable of all animals-the superannuated dandy.

II.

THE SLEEPER ON MARATHON.

I LAY upon the solemn plain,
And by the funeral mound,

Where those who died not there in vain,
Their place of sleep had found.

'Twas silent where the free blood gush'd,
When Persia came array'd,-

So many a voice had there been hush'd,
So many a footstep stay'd!

I slumber'd on the lonely spot,
So sanctified by Death!

I slumber'd-but my rest was not

As theirs who lay beneath.

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,
They rose-the chainless Dead-
All arm'd they sprung, in joy, in power,
Up from their grassy bed.

I saw their spears, on that red field,
Flash, as in time gone by!

Chased to the seas, without his shield,
I saw the Persian fly!

I woke the sudden trumpet's blast
Call'd to another fight:-

From visions of our glorious past,
Who doth not wake in might?

F. H.

TABLE TALK. .-NO. X.

On Application to Study.

No one is idle, who can do any thing. It is conscious inability, or the sense of repeated failure, that prevents us from undertaking, or deters us from the prosecution of any work.

Wilson, the painter, might be mentioned as an exception to this rule; for he was said to be an indolent man. After bestowing a few touches on a picture, he grew tired, and said to any friend who called in, "Now, let us go somewhere!" But the fact is, that Wilson could not finish his pictures minutely; and that those few masterly touches, carelessly thrown in of a morning, were all that he could do. The rest would have been labour lost. Morland has been referred to as another man of genius, who could only be brought to work by fits and snatches. But his landscapes and figures (whatever degree of merit they might possess) were mere hasty sketches; and he could produce all that he was capable of, in the first half-hour, as well as in twenty years. Why bestow additional pains without additional effect? What he did was from the impulse of the moment, from the lively impression of some coarse, but striking object; and with that impulse his efforts ceased, as they justly ought. There is no use in labouring, invitá Minerva-nor any difficulty in it, when the Muse is not averse.

"The labour we delight in physics pain."

Denner finished his unmeaning portraits with a microscope, and without being ever weary of his fruitless task; for the essence of his genius was industry. Sir Joshua Reynolds, courted by the Graces and by Fortune, was hardly ever out of his painting-room; and lamented a few days, at any time spent at a friend's house or at a nobleman's seat in the country, as so much time lost. That darkly-illuminated room "to him a kingdom was:" his pencil was the sceptre that he wielded, and the throne, on which his sitters were placed, a throne for Fame. Here he felt indeed at home; here the current of his ideas flowed full and strong; here he felt most self-possession, most command over others; and the sense of power urged him on to his delightful task with a sort of vernal cheerfulness and vigour, even in the decline of life. The feeling of weakness and incapacity would have made his hand soon falter, would have rebutted him from his object; or had the canvass mocked, and been insensible to his toil, instead of gradually turning to

"A lucid mirror, in which nature saw

All her reflected features,"

he would, like so many others, have thrown down his pencil in despair, or proceeded reluctantly, without spirit and without success. Claude Lorraine, in like manner, spent whole mornings on the banks of the Tiber or in his study, eliciting beauty after beauty, adding touch to touch, getting nearer and nearer to perfection, luxuriating in endless felicity-not merely giving the salient points, but filling up the whole intermediate space with continuous grace and beauty! What farther motive was necessary to induce him to persevere, but the bounty of his fate? What greater pleasure could he seek for, than that of seeing the