ichard Avenel shave! You
could have judged at once how he would shave his neighbors, when you saw
the celerity, the completeness with which he shaved himself--a
forestroke and a backstroke, and _tondenti barba cadebat_! Cheek and
chin were as smooth as glass. You would have buttoned up your pockets
instinctively if you had seen him. But the rest of Mr. Avenel's toilet
was not completed with correspondent dispatch. On his bed, and on his
chairs, and on his sofa, and on his drawers, lay trowsers and vests, and
cravats, enough to distract the choice of a Stoic. And first one pair of
trowsers was tried on, and then another--and one waistcoat, and then a
second, and then a third. Gradually that _chef d'oeuvre_ of
civilization--a _man dressed_--grew into development and form; and,
finally. Mr. Richard Avenel emerged into the light of day. He had been
lucky in his costume--he felt it. It might not suit every one in color
or cut, but it suited him. And this was his garb. On such occasions,
what epic poet would not describe the robe and tunic of a hero?

His surtout--in modern phrase, his frock-coat--was blue, a rich blue, a
blue that the royal brothers of George the Fourth were wont to favor.
And the surtout, single-breasted, was thrown open gallantly; and in the
second button-hole thereof was a moss rose. The vest was white, and the
trowsers a pearl-gray, with what tailors style "a handsome fall over the
boot." A blue and white silk cravat, tied loose and debonair; an ample
field of shirt front, with plain gold studs; a pair of lemon-colored kid
gloves, and a white hat, placed somewhat too knowingly on one side,
complete the description, and "give the world assurance of the man."
And, with his light, firm, well-shaped figure, his clear complexion, his
keen bright eye, and features that bespoke the courage, precision, and
alertness of his character--that is to say, features bold, not large,
well-defined and regular--you might walk long through town or country
before you would see a handsomer specimen of humanity than our friend
Richard Avenel.

Handsome, and feeling that he was handsome; rich, and feeling that he
was rich; lord of the fete, and feeling that he was lord of the fete,
Richard Avenel stepped out upon his lawn.

And now the dust began to rise along the road, and carriages, and gigs,
and chaises, and flies, might be seen at near intervals and in quick
procession. People came pretty much about the same time--as they