The reign of Beau Nash at Bath forms a "brilliant" era in the annals of ostentatious frivolity. Under his auspices the City of the Sick[204] became the favorite place of resort for the fashionable and the gay; and in the pools where formerly lepers alone washed to cleanse them of their sores, smooth-skinned ladies dabbled for pleasure, to the sound of soft music, while gentlemen, enraptured, looked on.[205] The Beau was admirably fitted, from his mercurial talents, to discharge the peculiar duties of purveyor of pleasure to the fashionable society of his age: he could administer flattery to a duchess while he pretended to reprove her; and could persuade the little madams, of the Would-be family, that they were honoured by his patronising condescension, at the very time that he was endeavouring to make them appear ridiculous, for the amusement of _real_ ladies. He displayed great tact in bringing parties together who wished to be better acquainted, and denounced scandal as the bane of fashionable society. He promoted play as a recreation for the polite of both sexes; and encouraged dancing, not only as a healthy exercise _per se_, but for the benefit of the rooms, and for the sake of aiding the salutary operation of the waters. In his dress he was "conspicuously queer," as was requisite in a Master of the Ceremonies: he wore a large white hat,--cocked, be it observed,--the buckle of his stock before instead of behind, and, even in the coldest weather, his waistcoat unbuttoned, displaying the bosom of his shirt. He drove six greys in his carriage, and when he went in state to the rooms he was always attended by a numerous escort and a band of music, the principal instruments of which were French horns,--"Sonorous metal, blowing martial sounds." On his decease, which took place in 1761, the corporation of Bath, grateful for the benefits conferred on their city through his means, erected a marble statue of the Grand Master of the Ceremonies in the Pump-room, between the busts of Newton and Pope; and his good-natured friend, the Earl of Chesterfield, in an epigram, thus did justice to his memory and the taste of the corporation: "The Statue, placed these busts between, Gives Satire all its strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen, But Folly at full length."