lady; he never ate vegetables—­one pea he confessed to—­but he did not mind borrowing from his friends money which he knew he could never return.  He was a great gentleman, a gentleman of his patron’s school—­in short, a well-dressed snob.  But one thing is due to Brummell:  he made the assumption of being ‘a gentleman’ so thoroughly ridiculous that few men of keen sense care now for the title:  at least, not as a class-distinction.  Nor is it to be wondered at; when your tailor’s assistant is a ‘gentleman,’ and would be mightily disgusted at being called anything else, you, with your indomitable pride of caste, can scarcely care for the patent.

Brummell’s claim to the title was based on his walk, his coat, his cravat, and the grace with which he indulged, as Captain Jesse delightfully calls it, ‘the nasal pastime’ of taking snuff, all the rest was impudence; and many are the anecdotes—­most of them familiar as household words—­which are told of his impertinence.  The story of Mrs. Johnson-Thompson is one of those oft-told tales, which, from having become Joe Millers, have gradually passed out of date and been almost forgotten.  Two rival party-givers rejoiced in the aristocratic names of Johnson and Thompson.  The former lived near Finsbury, the latter near Grosvenor Square, and Mrs. Thompson was somehow sufficiently fashionable to expect the Regent himself at her assemblies.  Brummell among other impertinences, was fond of going where he was not invited or wanted.  The two rivals gave a ball on the same evening, and a card was sent to the Beau by her of Finsbury.  He chose to go to the Grosvenor Square house, in hopes of meeting the Regent, then his foe.  Mrs. Thompson was justly disgusted, and with a vulgarity quite deserved by the intruder, told him he was not invited.  The Beau made a thousand apologies, hummed, hawed, and drew a card from his pocket.  It was the rival’s invitation, and was indignantly denounced.  ‘Dear me, how very unfortunate,’ said the Beau, ’but you know Johnson and Thompson—­I mean Thompson and Johnson are so very much alike.  Mrs. Johnson-Thompson, I wish you a very good evening.’

Perhaps there is no vulgarity greater than that of rallying people on their surnames, but our exquisite gentleman had not wit enough to invent one superior to such a puerile amusement.  Thus, on one occasion, he woke up at three in the morning a certain Mr. Snodgrass, and when the worthy put his head out of the window in alarm, said quietly, ’Pray, sir, is your name Snodgrass?’—­’Yes, sir, it is Snodgrass.’  ’Snodgrass—­ Snodgrass—­it is a very singular name.  Good-bye, Mr. Snodgrass.’  There was more wit in his remark to Poodle Byng, a well-known puppy, whom he met one day driving in the Park with a French dog in his curricle.  ‘Ah,’ cried the Beau, ‘how d’ye do, Byng? a family vehicle, I see.’