Lucretia | Page 6

was placed was
surmounted by a stone falcon, whose talons griped fiercely a scutcheon
blazoned with the five-pointed stars which heralds recognize as the
arms of St. John. On either side this tower extended long wings, the
dark brickwork of which was relieved with noble stone casements and
carved pediments; the high roof was partially concealed by a balustrade
perforated not inelegantly into arabesque designs; and what architects
call "the sky line" was broken with imposing effect by tall
chimney-shafts of various form and fashion. These wings terminated in
angular towers similar to the centre, though kept duly subordinate to it
both in size and decoration, and crowned with stone cupolas. A low
balustrade, of later date than that which adorned the roof, relieved by
vases and statues, bordered the terrace, from which a double flight of
steps descended to a smooth lawn, intersected by broad gravel-walks,
shadowed by vast and stately cedars, and gently and gradually mingling
with the wilder scenery of the park, from which it was only divided by
a ha-ha.
Upon the terrace, and under cover of a temporary awning, sat the owner,
Sir Miles St. John of Laughton, a comely old man, dressed with faithful
precision to the costume which he had been taught to consider
appropriate to his rank of gentleman, and which was not yet wholly
obsolete and eccentric. His hair, still thick and luxuriant, was carefully
powdered, and collected into a club behind; his nether man attired in
gray breeches and pearl-coloured silk stockings; his vest of silk,
opening wide at the breast, and showing a profusion of frill, slightly
sprinkled with the pulvilio of his favourite Martinique; his
three-cornered hat, placed on a stool at his side, with a gold-headed
crutch-cane (hat made rather to be carried in the hand than worn on the
head), the diamond in his shirt- breast, the diamond on his finger, the
ruffles at his wrist,--all bespoke the gallant who had chatted with Lord
Chesterfield and supped with Mrs. Clive. On a table before him were

placed two or three decanters of wine, the fruits of the season, an
enamelled snuff-box in which was set the portrait of a female (perhaps
the Chloe or Phyllis of his early love- ditties), a lighted taper, a small
china jar containing tobacco, and three or four pipes of homely
clay,--for cherry-sticks and meerschaums were not then in fashion, and
Sir Miles St. John, once a gay and sparkling beau, now a popular
country gentleman, great at county meetings and sheep-shearing
festivals, had taken to smoking, as in harmony with his bucolic
transformation. An old setter lay dozing at his feet; a small spaniel--old,
too--was sauntering lazily in the immediate neighbourhood, looking
gravely out for such stray bits of biscuit as had been thrown forth to
provoke him to exercise, and which hitherto had escaped his attention.
Half seated, half reclined on the balustrade, apart from the baronet, but
within reach of his conversation, lolled a man in the prime of life, with
an air of unmistakable and sovereign elegance and distinction. Mr.
Vernon was a guest from London; and the London man,--the man of
clubs and dinners and routs, of noon loungings through Bond Street,
and nights spent with the Prince of Wales,--seemed stamped not more
upon the careful carelessness of his dress, and upon the worn
expression of his delicate features, than upon the listless ennui, which,
characterizing both his face and attitude, appeared to take pity on
himself for having been entrapped into the country.
Yet we should convey an erroneous impression of Mr. Vernon if we
designed, by the words "listless ennui," to depict the slumberous
insipidity of more modern affectation; it was not the ennui of a man to
whom ennui is habitual, it was rather the indolent prostration that fills
up the intervals of excitement. At that day the word blast was unknown;
men had not enough sentiment for satiety. There was a kind of
Bacchanalian fury in the life led by those leaders of fashion, among
whom Mr. Vernon was not the least distinguished; it was a day of deep
drinking, of high play, of jovial, reckless dissipation, of strong appetite
for fun and riot, of four-in-hand coachmanship, of prize- fighting, of a
strange sort of barbarous manliness that strained every nerve of the
constitution,--a race of life in which three fourths of the competitors
died half-way in the hippodrome. What is now the Dandy was then the
Buck; and something of the Buck, though subdued by a chaster taste

than fell to the ordinary members of his class, was apparent in Mr.
Vernon's costume as well as air. Intricate folds of muslin, arranged in
prodigious bows and ends, formed the cravat, which Brummell had not
yet arisen to reform; his hat, of a very