ave been equal to L300 a year in England, and certainly quite enough
for any bachelor; but the Beau was really a fool. For whom, for what
should he dress and polish his boots at such a quiet place as Caen? Yet
he continued to do so, and to run into debt for the polish. When he
confessed to having, 'so help him Heaven,' not four francs in the world,
he was ordering this _vernis de Guiton_, at five francs a bottle, from
Paris, and calling the provider of it a 'scoundrel,' because he ventured
to ask for his money. What foppery, what folly was all this! How truly
worthy of the man who built his fame on the reputation of a coat!
Terrible indeed was the hardship that followed his extravagance; he was
actually compelled to exchange his white for a black cravat. Poor
martyr! after such a trial it is impossible to be hard upon him. So,
too, the man who sent repeated begging-letters to the English grocer,
Armstrong, threw out of window a new dressing-gown because it was not of
the pattern he wished to have.

Retribution for all this folly came in time. His mind went even before
his health. Though only some sixty years of age, almost the bloom of
some men's life, he lost his memory and his powers of attention, His old
ill-manners became positively bad manners. When feasted and feted, he
could find nothing better to say than 'What a half-starved turkey.' At
last the Beau was reduced to the level of that slovenliness which he had
considered as the next step to perdition. Reduced to one pair of
trousers, he had to remain in bed till they were mended. He grew
indifferent to his personal appearance, the surest sign of decay.
Drivelling, wretched, in debt, an object of contempt to all honest men,
he dragged on a miserable existence. Still with his boots in holes, and
all the honour of beau-dom gone for ever, he clung to the last to his
Eau de Cologne, and some few other luxuries, and went down, a fool and a
fop, to the grave. To indulge his silly tastes he had to part with one
piece of property after another; and at length he was left with little
else than the locks of hair of which he had once boasted.

I remember a story of a labourer and his dying wife. The poor woman was
breathing her last wishes. 'And, I say, William, you'll see the old sow
don't kill her young uns?'--'Ay, ay, wife, set thee good.' 'And, I say,
William, you'll see Lizzy goes to schule reg'lar?'--'Ay, ay, wife, set
thee good.' 'And, I say, William, you'll see Tommy'