inform me when the operation is over." When poor Vick died he shed tears, and observed to Mr. Marshall, in his usual cynical tone, that he had "lost the only friend he had in the world," meaning, most likely, in the world of Calais.

"

Lister has introduced a version of this anecdote in

Granby," but there is a difference in the dog's name and species, and the time and place. The scene I allude to is laid at a nobleman's house in the country, where he broke up a prolix conversation one morning by making his poodle perform some laughable tricks, and directing the attention of the company to the beauty of his dog. "Come here, Polisson," he said, "come here and show yourself; is not he magnificent? Look at these tufts, I had him shorn by the best tondeuse in Paris. Lady Harriet, I'll give you her direction." "Oh thank you! how handsome he is! he must be quite a treasure." "Oh! invaluable : when Polisson dies I shall steal for him Lord Byron's epitaph on his Newfoundland dog; then I shall say, with my hand on my heart (speaking of my friends), 'I have never had but one, and there he lies,'" pointing to the dog who was stretched upon the hearthrug.

Poor Vick was buried, by his special desire, in Dessin's garden; and though her master did not actually put on mourning, he talked seriously of erecting a monument to her memory. His salon was peremptorily closed against visitors for three days, and it was several weeks before he permitted any one.

to speak of her death. He had subsequently three poodles: the most famous of the trio was called "Atous," and had been trained by a soldier of the garrison. This dog was a perfect specimen of canine intelligence, and he turned out for his walk at four, quite as neat as Brummell. His great accomplishment was to take a hot muffin from the plate before the fire, and run round the room offering it to the company; but poor "Atous" also died, and Brummell was again a prey to grief. Like a true cynic, his eye was seldom if ever moistened on hearing of the death of a friend, though a flood of tears was always ready when his dogs died. His poodle was regretted because it was constantly in his presence, and his decease left a blank in the daily routine of his habits and ideas.

But to resume the sketch of his diurnal proceedings. At five o'clock precisely he ascended the staircase to his rooms, and dressed for dinner, which was sent from Dessin's at six at this meal he washed his œsophagus with a bottle of Dorchester ale, of which he had always a barrel in the house. This showed plainly indeed that he had "fallen from his high estate," and was fain now to treat with rather less contempt than he felt on hearing it-the sarcastic remark of the alderman, for the beverage was at least malt liquor. potent stuff was followed by a liqueur glass of brandy, which he always took during dinner, and the rear was brought up by a bottle of Bordeaux; a pretty comfortable refection for a man who lived entirely on the charity of his friends.

This

It was after one of these niggardly repasts that he is said to have written to the late Lord Sefton that he was "lying on straw, and grinning through the bars of a gaol; eating bran bread, my good fellow, eating bran bread." I will not, however, vouch for the truth of the story. The double X did not take great effect upon his brain; for though not given to excess, he had been well accustomed to a tolerable quantity of wine, to say nothing of Roman punch, into the mysteries of which it has been asserted that he initiated the Prince Regent. One who knew him intimately at Calais, assured me that he had never seen him inebriated but once, and then he was so disgusted with himself that he performed a voluntary penance of solitary confinement for eight days; query, with or without his Dorchester ale? At seven o'clock, or half-past, he went to the theatre, where he had a small box; or in the long warm evenings he retired to his garden, in the summer-house of which (now thrown down) he either read or noted down his recollections of his past career.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Brummell's Visitor from Dover-His Ungallant Conduct to his Daughter -His Reception of Wellesley Poole on his Arrival at Calais—Mr. Berkeley's Toady-The Morning Walk with Lord Sefton—A Rencontre on the Ramparts-The Beau reported Dead—Calais GossipBrummell adds his Quota-The Result-His Appointment at Chalk Farm-His Reception of Colonel R――d.

SUCH was the general tenor of his life, varied occasionally by a dinner at the consul's, or a visit from some friend of former years- a few of these stray birds of fashion would sometimes delay their departure for two or three days, merely to enjoy a laugh at the fund of anecdotes with which he was charged; and one of them, who had a house at Dover, frequently crossed the water to see him, and always gave him notice of his intention, desiring that he would have all in readiness for his party at the Hotel, himself included. At these little fêtes, he was always in good spirits, and as amusing as ever. One day after dinner, the elegant Beau, though always on the qui vive that his proceedings should be faultless, upset a cup of coffee on the cloth. The bell was rung for the waiter to remove it, and on his appearing for that purpose he gave him to understand, with the

most imperturbable gravity, that a young and graceful lady, the daughter of his friend, had committed this piece of gaucherie. Directly, however, he had left the room, the real delinquent hastened to apologise and soften the indignation of the innocent victim, or at least attempted to do so; adding drolly to a string of excuses, "You know it would never have done to let the world know that I was guilty of such awkwardness." This was not very chivalrous; even if his fair neighbour had really spilt it, it would have been more goodnatured, if not so entertaining, to have taken the odium on himself-mais son égoïsme régnait partout.

But, however glad he might be to accept any invitation that promised to afford him amusement within the walls of the town, his friends could never succeed in persuading him to spend one night away from his own rooms. Lord Alvanley did, I believe, once prevail upon him to go to Dunkirk, and his landlord thought that he would at any rate not return that night; but he was mistaken, for at four o'clock. in the morning, Brummell knocked at the door. The Beau appeared much flattered and pleased by any attentions paid him by his itinerant visitors, and always endeavoured to be more than usually agreeable to them-if that were possible, though he could not deny himself a joke, if it came into his head. I remember, said one of his Calais friends, that when sitting with him one morning, in walked Wellesley Poole, who had just landed from the Dover packet;