Amongst the curious freaks of fortune there is none more remarkable in
my memory than the sudden appearance, in the highest and best society
in London, of a young man whose antecedents warranted a much less
conspicuous career: I refer to the famous Beau Brummell. We have
innumerable instances of soldiers, lawyers, and men of letters,
elevating themselves from the most humble stations, and becoming the
companions of princes and lawgivers; but there are comparatively few
examples of men obtaining a similarly elevated position simply from
their attractive personal appearance and fascinating manners.
Brummell's father, who was a steward to one or two large estates, sent
his son George to Eton. He was endowed with a handsome person, and
distinguished himself at Eton as the best scholar, the best boatman,
and the best cricketer; and, more than all, he was supposed to possess
the comprehensive excellences that are represented by the familiar term
of "good fellow." He made many friends amongst the scions of good
families, by whom he was considered a sort of Crichton; and his
reputation reached a circle over which reigned the celebrated Duchess
of Devonshire. At a grand ball given by her Grace, George Brummell,
then quite a youth, appeared for the first time in such elevated
society. He immediately became a great favourite with the ladies, and
was asked by all the dowagers to as many balls and soirees as he could
attend.
At last the Prince of Wales sent for Brummell, and was so much pleased
with his manner and appearance, that he gave him a commission in his
own regiment, the 10th Hussars. Unluckily, Brummell, soon after
joining his regiment, was thrown from his horse at a grand review at
Brighton, when he broke his classical Roman nose. This misfortune,
however, did not affect the fame of the beau; and although his nasal
organ had undergone a slight transformation, it was forgiven by his
admirers, since the rest of his person remained intact. When we are
prepossessed by the attractions of a favourite, it is not a trifle that
will dispel the illusion; and Brummell continued to govern society, in
conjunction with the Prince of Wales. He was remarkable for his dress,
which was generally conceived by himself; the execution of his sublime
imagination being carried out by that superior genius, Mr. Weston,
tailor, of Old Bond Street. The Regent sympathised deeply with
Brummell's labours to arrive at the most attractive and gentlemanly
mode of dressing the male form, at a period when fashion had placed at
the disposal of the tailor the most hideous material that could
possibly tax his art. The coat may have a long tail or a short tail, a
high collar or a low collar, but it will always be an ugly garment.
The modern hat may be spread out at the top, or narrowed, whilst the
brim may be turned up or turned down, made a little wider or a little
more narrow, still it is inconceivably hideous. Pantaloons and Hessian
boots were the least objectionable features of the costume which the
imagination of a Brummell and the genius of a Royal Prince were called
upon to modify or change. The hours of meditative agony which each
dedicated to the odious fashions of the day have left no monument save
the coloured caricatures in which these illustrious persons have
appeared.
Brummell, at this time, besides being the companion and friend of the
Prince, was very intimate with the Dukes of Rutland, Dorset, and
Argyll, Lords Sefton, Alvanley, and Plymouth. In the zenith of his
popularity he might be seen at the bay window of White's Club,
surrounded by the lions of the day, laying down the law, and
occasionally indulging in those witty remarks for which he was famous.
His house in Chapel Street corresponded with his personal "get up"; the
furniture was in excellent taste, and the library contained the best
works of the best authors of every period and of every country. His
canes, his snuff-boxes, his Sevres china, were exquisite; his horses
and carriage were conspicuous for their excellence; and, in fact, the
superior taste of a Brummell was discoverable in everything that
belonged to him.
But the reign of the king of fashion, like all other reigns, was not
destined to continue for ever. Brummell warmly espoused the cause of
Mrs. Fitzherbert, and this of course offended the Prince of Wales. I
refer to the period when his Royal Highness had abandoned that
beautiful woman for another favourite. A coldness sprang up between
the Prince and his protege, and finally, the mirror of fashion was
excluded from the royal presence. A curious accident brought Brummell
again to the dinner-table of his royal patron; he was asked one night
at White's to take a hand at whist, when he won from George Harley
Drummond 20,000£. This circumstance having been related by the Duke of
York to the Prince of Wales, the beau was again invited to Carlton
House. At the commencement of the dinner, matters went off smoothly;
but Brummell, in his joy at finding himself with his old friend, became
excited, and drank too much wine. His Royal Highness--who wanted to
pay off Brummell for an insult he had received at Lady Cholmondeley's
ball, when the beau, turning towards the Prince, said to Lady
Worcester, "Who is your fat friend?"--had invited him to dinner merely
out of a desire for revenge. The Prince therefore pretended to be
affronted with Brummell's hilarity, and said to his brother, the Duke
of York, who was present, "I think we had better order Mr. Brummell's
carriage before he gets drunk." Whereupon he rang the bell, and
Brummell left the royal presence. This circumstance originated the
story about the beau having told the Prince to ring the bell. I
received these details from the late General Sir Arthur Upton, who was
present at the dinner. The latter days of Brummell were clouded with
mortifications and penury. He retired to Calais, where he kept up a
ludicrous imitation of his past habits. At least he got himself named
consul at Caen; but he afterwards lost the appointment, and eventually
died insane, and in abject poverty, either at Boulogne or Calais.