For some time calumny was busy with his name, it being stated that he had misappropriated some funds, an accusation which he most strenuously and solemnly denied, and for which no proof could be given. His irritability grew, and he often said things which gave great annoyance. One lady, suffering with a deformed back, however paid him in his own coin. She had but just arrived when Nash, accosting her, asked whence she came. "Straight from London," she replied.

"Confound me, madam," said he; "then you must have been damnably warpt by the way."

It is possible that she was, or looked, very young, for seeing her again that evening Nash asked her if she knew her Catechism, and followed this by demanding facetiously whether she knew the name of Tobit's dog!

"Yes, sir," replied the lady; "his name was Nash, and a very impudent dog he was.

On another occasion, at a ball, he called upon a lady to stand up for the minuet, and she refused, saying she did not wish to dance.

"Not wish to dance, madam! 'Fore God you shall dance, or not come here at all!" roared Nash, much to the anger of those who heard him.

One of the favourite stories which he told in his later years was concerning the activity of his youth.

"Here I stand, gentlemen, that could once leap fortytwo feet upon level ground, at three standing jumps, backward or forward. One, two, three, dart like an arrow out of a bow. But I am old now. I remember I once leaped for three hundred guineas with Count Klopstock, the great leaper, leaping-master to the Prince of Passau; you must all have heard of him. First he began with the running jump, and a most damnable bounce it was, that's certain. Everybody concluded that

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he had the match hollow; when only taking off my hat, and stripping off neither coat, shoes, nor stockings, mind me, I fetches a run, and went beyond him one foot, three inches and three-quarters; measured, upon my soul, by Captain Pately's own standard."

The Beau's career was watched with interest in London as well as in Bath. Horace Walpole mentions him in his Diary of 1755" I, t'other night at White's, found a very remarkable entry in our very-very remarkable wager-book. 'Lord Montford bets sir John Bland twenty guineas that Nash outlives Cibber!' How odd that these two old creatures, selected for their antiquities, should live to see both their wagerers put an end to their own lives.1 Cibber is within a few days of eighty-four, still hearty, and clear, and well. I told him I was glad to see him look so well. Faith,' said he, 'it is very well that I look at all!""

Poor Nash! Some unkind spirit wrote a letter purporting to be from the old actor Quin to a certain nobleman, asking him to dethrone Nash and put him (Quin) into his place. A copy of this was sent to Nash, it being found among his papers after his death. The letter stated that he was so disagreeable that he was ruining Bath; that it would be happy for this city if he were dead; and "he is now only fitt to read Shirlock upon death, by which he may seave his soul and gaine more than all the profitts he can make, by his white hatt, suppose it to be died red," etc.

This feeling could not have been general, as many of his friends subscribed for his memoirs, which he was supposed to be writing with a minimum subscription of ten guineas many hundred pounds were collected, which kept Nash going for a long while. Eventually the 1 "Both Lord Montford and Sir John Bland committed suicide."

Councillors meanly voted to this octogenarian who had literally made the prosperity of their city, a pittance of £10 a month. It was not enough for his needs, and his gorgeous collection of snuff-boxes vanished, with all the rest of his treasures, so that at his death three snuffboxes-given by the Prince of Wales, Princess Amelia, and the Countess of Burlington-some family pictures, and a few books were all that remained of his house-full of valuable bric-a-brac.

During his last years he was pestered with letters from the "unco guid," whose certainty of their own salvation seemed to have filled them with malice towards other people. I give one specimen of such, which is quite enough to condemn the religion of the writer.

"You are as odious to God as a corrupt carcass that lies putrifying in the churchyard. You are as far from doing your duty, or endeavouring after salvation, or restoring yourself to the divine favour, as a heap of dry bones nailed up in a coffin is from vigour and activity. Think, sir, I conjure you, think upon this, if you have any inclination to escape the fire that will never be quenched. Would you be rescued from the fury and fierce anger of God? Would you be delivered from weeping, and wailing, and incessant gnashing of teeth?... If you do not remedy in some degree the evils that you have sent abroad, wretched will you be, above all men to eternity. God's jealousy, like a consuming flame, will smoke against you, as you yourself will see, in that day when the mountains shall quake, and the hills shall melt, and the earth be burnt up at His presence."

This sort of thing served to hurt the poor old man, but could not possibly do him any good. Of it Gold

smith says:

"In the name of piety, what was there criminal in his