The Amateur Gentleman

The star of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, was undoubtedly in the

ascendant; no such radiant orb had brightened the Fashionable

Firmament since that of a certain Mr. Brummell had risen to

scintillate a while ere it paled and vanished before the royal frown.

Thus the Fashionable World turned polite eyes to mark the course of

this new luminary and, if it vaguely wondered how long that course

might be, it (like the perspicacious waiter at the "George")

regarded Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, as one to be flattered, smiled

upon, and as worthy of all consideration and respect.

For here was one, not only young, fabulously rich and a proved

sportsman, but a dandy, besides, with a nice taste and originality

in matters sartorial, more especially in waistcoats and cravats,

which articles, as the Fashionable World well knows, are the final

gauge of a man's depth and possibilities.

Thus, the waistcoats of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, or their

prototypes to a button, were to be met with any day sunning

themselves in the Mall, and the styles of cravat affected by

Barnabas Beverley, Esquire, were to be observed at the most

brilliant functions, bowing in all directions.

Wherefore, all this considered, what more natural than that the

Fashionable World should desire to make oblation to this, its newest

(and consequently most admired) ornament, and how better than to

feed him, since banquets are a holy rite sanctified by custom and

tradition?

Hence, the Fashionable World appointed and set apart a day whereon,

with all due pomp and solemnity, to eat and drink to the glory and

honor of Barnabas Beverley, Esquire.

Nevertheless (perverse fate!) Barnabas Beverley was not happy, for,

though his smile was as ready as his tongue, yet, even amid the

glittering throng, yea, despite the soft beams of Beauty's eyes, his

brow would at times grow dark and sombre, and his white, strong

fingers clench themselves upon the dainty handkerchief of lace and

cambric fashion required him to carry. Yet even this was accepted in

all good faith, and consequently pale checks and a romantic gloom

became the mode.

No, indeed, Barnabas was not happy, since needs must he think ever

of Cleone. Two letters had he written her, the first a humble

supplication, the second an angry demand couched in terms of bitter

reproach. Yet Cleone gave no sign; and the days passed. Therefore,

being himself young and proud, he wrote no more, and waited for some

word of explanation, some sign from her; then, as the days

lengthened into weeks, he set himself resolutely to forget her, if

such a thing might be.

The better to achieve a thing so impossible, he turned to that most

fickle of all goddesses whose name is Chance, and wooed her fiercely

by day and by night. He became one of her most devoted slaves; in

noble houses, in clubs and hells, he sought her. Calm-eyed,

grim-lipped he wooed her, yet with dogged assiduity; he became a

familiar figure at those very select gaming-tables where play was

highest, and tales of his recklessness and wild prodigality began to

circulate; tales of huge sums won and lost with the same calm

indifference, that quiet gravity which marked him in all things.