Perhaps he was too much of a woman to care much for women.  He was certainly egregiously effeminate.  About the only creatures he could love were poodles.  When one of his dogs, from over-feeding, was taken ill, he sent for two dog-doctors, and consulted very gravely with them on the remedies to be applied.  The canine physicians came to the conclusion that she must be bled.  ‘Bled!’ said Brummell, in horror; ’I shall leave the room:  inform me when the operation is over.’  When the dog died, he shed tears—­probably the only ones he had shed since childhood:  and though at that time receiving money from many an old friend in England, complained, with touching melancholy, ’that he had lost the only friend he had!’ His grief lasted three whole days, during which he shut himself up, and would see no one; but we are not told that he ever thus mourned over any human being.

His effeminacy was also shown in his dislike to field-sports.  His shooting exploits were confined to the murder of a pair of pet pigeons perched on a roof, while he confessed, as regards hunting, that it was a bore to get up so early in the morning only to have one’s boots and leathers splashed by galloping farmers.  However, hunting was a fashion, and Brummell must needs appear to hunt.  He therefore kept a stud of hunters in his better days, near Belvoir, the Duke of Rutland’s, where he was a frequent visitor, and if there was a near meet, would ride out in pink and tops to see the hounds break cover, follow through a few gates, and return to the more congenial atmosphere of the drawing-room.  He, however, condescended to bring his taste to bear on the hunting-dress; and, it is said, introduced white tops instead of the ancient mahoganies.  That he could ride there seems reason to believe, but it is equally probable that he was afraid to do so.  His valour was certainly composed almost entirely of its ‘better part,’ and indeed had so much prudence in it that it may be doubted if there was any of the original stock left.  Once when he had been taking away somebody’s character, the ‘friend’ of the maligned gentleman entered his apartment, and very menacingly demanded satisfaction for his principal, unless an apology were tendered ‘in five minutes.’  ‘Five minutes!’ answered the exquisite, as pale as death, ‘five seconds, or sooner if you like.’

Brummell was no fool, in spite of his follies.  He had talents of a mediocre kind, if he had chosen to make a better use of them.  Yet the general opinion was not in favour of his wisdom.  He quite deserved Sheridan’s cool satire for his affectation, if not for his want of mind.

The Wit and the Beau met one day at Charing Cross, and it can well be imagined that the latter was rather disgusted at being seen so far east of St. James’s Street, and drawled out to Sheridan,—­’Sherry, my dear boy, don’t mention that you saw me in this filthy part of the town, though, perhaps, I am rather severe, for his Grace of Northumberland resides somewhere about this spot, if I don’t mistake.  The fact is, my dear boy, I have been in the d——­d City, to the Bank:  I wish they would remove it to the West End, for re-all-y it is quite a bore to go to such a place; more particularly as one cannot be seen in one’s own equipage beyond Somerset House,’ etc. etc. etc. in the Brummellian style.