ffectionate with that wretched Brummell, and on Thursday forgot him;
cheated him even out of a snuff-box which he owed the poor dandy; saw him
years afterwards in his downfall and poverty, when the bankrupt Beau sent
him another snuff-box with some of the snuff he used to love, as a piteous
token of remembrance and submission, and the king took the snuff, and
ordered his horses and drove on, and had not the grace to notice his old
companion, favourite, rival, enemy, superior. In _Wraxall_ there is some
gossip about him. When the charming, beautiful, generous Duchess of
Devonshire died--the lovely lady whom he used to call his dearest duchess
once, and pretend to admire as all English society admired her--he said,
"Then we have lost the best-bred woman in England." "Then we have lost the
kindest heart in England," said noble Charles Fox. On another occasion,
when three noblemen were to receive the Garter, says _Wraxall_, "a great
personage observed that never did three men receive the order in so
characteristic a manner. The Duke of A. advanced to the sovereign with a
phlegmatic, cold, awkward air like a clown; Lord B. came forward fawning
and smiling like a courtier; Lord C. presented himself easy,
unembarrassed, like a gentleman!" These are the stories one has to recall
about the prince and king--kindness to a housemaid, generosity to a groom,
criticism on a bow. There _are_ no better stories about him: they are mean
and trivial, and they characterize him. The great war of empires and
giants goes on. Day by day victories are won and lost by the brave. Torn,
smoky flags and battered eagles are wrenched from the heroic enemy and
laid at his feet; and he sits there on his throne and smiles, and gives
the guerdon of valour to the conqueror. He! Elliston the actor, when the
_Coronation_ was performed, in which he took the principal part, used to
fancy himself the king, burst into tears, and hiccup a blessing on the
people. I believe it is certain about George IV, that he had heard so much
of the war, knighted so many people, and worn such a prodigious quantity
of marshal's uniforms, cocked-hats, cock's feathers, scarlet and bullion
in general, that he actually fancied he had been present in some
campaigns, and, under the name of General Brock, led a tremendous charge
of the German legion at Waterloo.

He is dead but thirty years, and one asks how a great society could have
tolerated him? Would we bear him now? In this quarter