Those three young men are described in a twinkling: Captain Grig of the
Heavies; Mr. Beaumoris, the handsome young man; Tom Flinders (Flynders
Flynders he now calls himself), the fat gentleman who dresses after
Beaumoris.

Beaumoris is in the Treasury: he has a salary of eighty pounds a year,
on which he maintains the best cab and horses of the season; and out of
which he pays seventy guineas merely for his subscriptions to clubs. He
hunts in Leicestershire, where great men mount him; he is a prodigious
favorite behind the scenes at the theatres; you may get glimpses of him
at Richmond, with all sorts of pink bonnets; and he is the sworn friend
of half the most famous roues about town, such as Old Methuselah, Lord
Billygoat, Lord Tarquin, and the rest: a respectable race. It is to
oblige the former that the good-natured young fellow is here to-night;
though it must not be imagined that he gives himself any airs of
superiority. Dandy as he is, he is quite affable, and would borrow ten
guineas from any man in the room, in the most jovial way possible.

It is neither Beau's birth, which is doubtful; nor his money, which
is entirely negative; nor his honesty, which goes along with his
money-qualification; nor his wit, for he can barely spell,--which
recommend him to the fashionable world: but a sort of Grand Seigneur
splendor and dandified je ne scais quoi, which make the man he is of
him. The way in which his boots and gloves fit him is a wonder which no
other man can achieve; and though he has not an atom of principle, it
must be confessed that he invented the Taglioni shirt.

When I see these magnificent dandies yawning out of "White's," or
caracoling in the Park on shining chargers, I like to think that
Brummell was the greatest of them all, and that Brummell's father was a