There was something again awful in the direction in which his mind “drove,” while his soul itself was fast drifting over the turbulent cataracts of time into the boundless lake of calm eternity. He was for ever imagining himself among the scenes and companions of his days of noisy but empty triumph. It was his custom of an afternoon, when convalescent and clean, to arrange the furniture of his little room as for expected company. There all alone sat the spectral fop waiting for spectres; and as to his mind’s diseased eye these glided in, and to his deceived ear were duly announced, that ghastly shattered beau arose and went into mock raptures: he received his “dear duchess” with delight; and favoured shadowy countesses were led by him to the visionary sofa; and intangible lords were touched familiarly upon their non-existent shoulders; and the whole phantom soirée was gone through with a solemn trifling, till the shadows which came had as shadows departed, leaving with the solitary host just sufficient reason to enable him to appreciate the utter nothingness of all the scene, and to burst into childish tears at the recollection of the stupendous folly.
The flattered guest of princes died in a workhouse. He who had sat at palace-banquets would have died of starvation and uncleanness but for the alms and the hearts of the charitable Sisters, to whom, rare occurrence! he was not ungrateful. At the period of his decease, in the month of March, 1840, he was in his sixty-second year; and the “old man” had not died within him ere he breathed his last. After his death, we are told that several packets of letters,—tied up with different-coloured ribbons, and carefully numbered,—a miniature, a silver shaving-dish, a gold ring, and a few silver spoons, were found in a trunk at the hôtel. The miniature and letters were taken possession of by the vice-consul, and the remaining effects by the landlord, in liquidation of an account which had only been partially cancelled. This person said, that in the same parcel with the letters was another containing a great many locks of hair. Oh, poor human nature! what demoniacal vanity was here! But let us be just to this once-glittering simpleton. If he kept letters, he at least kept them sacred. He never published one to injure even a living enemy. Vain as he was, he was not revengeful; and no provocation could have worked upon him as a fancied provocation did upon “the Right Hon. John Wilson Croker,” who red-taped the open-hearted notes of Moore, and produced them as petards to blow to pieces the poet’s reputation when that once gayest of bards lay mute and defenceless in his grave.
Hugh Miller, in his excellent Autobiography, remarks that the Loligo vulgaris, or cuttle-fish, swims with its feet foremost,—in other words, follows its tail, and often gets “gravelled,” by darting blindly ashore, whence it cannot regain its home within the waters. Something like this has ever been the fate of the “beau;” for he who follows rather the animal than the intellectual propensities, is sure to rush, sooner or later, upon his own destruction.
Besides, how great is the outlay required to make a “beau,”—well-scented and useless, though perhaps temporarily agreeable! The sacrifices are greater than I have space to enumerate; the result in proportion is infinitesimally small. It reminds me of the six hundred pounds’ weight of rose-leaves required to produce a single ounce of the attar. Sad waste of many values in order to achieve a fashionable smell!
Not that a man should be indifferent to dress or to personal appearance. Dr. Chalmers himself illustrates the fact that some care about costume is consistent with the occupations of the mightiest intellect. In his ‘Journal’ (July, 1824), he says:—“Dressed for dinner. Have got a new way of folding up my coat, which I shall teach you when I get home, as it is of great use to a traveller. I am about as fond of it as I was of the new method of washing my hands.” From Chalmers to Chifney is perhaps going a long way for another illustration. They however who remember the late celebrated jockey in the days of his retirement will admit its propriety. How glossily patriarchal the old rider used to look, when, turned pedestrian, he was wont to pace Regent-street, in broad-brimmed hat and a clerical-looking surtout! Had he only been less grave of aspect, and more frolicsome of action, one might have taken him for Wilberforce.
It is really pleasant to trace how celebrated men in other climes than that of England make of costume a means to an end. I am reminded of this by a passage in one of the late Lord Metcalfe’s letters, in which he records his visit to the camp of Holkar, and notices one of that chief’s dandy captains, Ameer Khan. “Ameer Khan,” he says, “is blackguard in his looks, and affected on the occasion of my reception to be particularly fierce, by rubbing his coat over with gunpowder, and assuming in every way the air of a common soldier.” This was only Brummell “with a difference;” the Beau used to anoint himself with the oil of impudence in order to impose on the world, as Ameer Khan rubbed his coat with gunpowder that he might excite admiration in the breast of the civilian-soldier of Deeg.
For the reason that induced Miss Agnes Strickland to close her record of the Queens with the reign of Queen Anne, so do I close that of the beaux with the biography of Brummell. D’Orsay was indeed a greater than he; but he has too recently shuffled off this mortal coil to be strictly dealt with, and the truth concerning him might hurt the feelings of those of his followers who continue to wear deep stocks with long ends. His career only furnished a further proof that the profession of a “beau” is not a paying one. He was great in a Fielding-ian sense, and according to the poet’s maxim which says, “Base is the slave that pays.” Mere generosity does not make a gentleman; and even generosity that is oblivious of justice is of no value. There was really nothing to admire in him. A recent “friend and acquaintance” indeed has been so hard put to it to find out a virtue in D’Orsay, that he has fixed upon his neglect of paying his creditors as one; and the “friend” thinks that it was sufficient honour for tradesmen to have him for their debtor! He resided at Gore House; gave dinners to Louis Napoleon, which cost the giver nothing in money, and the hungry recipient as little in gratitude; he drew caricature portraits of his “familiars;” proposed a public subscription for the polluting Paul de Kock; and was the author of a portrait or figure of our Saviour, the idea of which seemed to be taken from that of Decker in the old comedy, who dared to say of Him that He was—
“The first true gentleman that ever breathed.”
Finally, the worst thing that could happen for the reputation of the deceased Count is, that he should have so mistaken an advocate as the author of ‘Friends and Acquaintances.’ Better would it have been for the irreproachably-dressed D’Orsay, if he could have said as the Psalmist did:—“My lovers and friends hast thou put away from me, and hid mine acquaintance out of my sight.”