In the 113th number of the ‘Tatler,’ under the motto of “Ecce iterum Crispinus,” the catalogue is given of the effects of a defunct beau: and probably with some allusion to Fielding. Among the articles cited are “A very rich tweezer case, containing twelve instruments for the use of each hour in the day.” To this succeed gilt snuff-boxes, with looking-glasses in the lid, or portraits of equivocal ladies; “a sword with a steel-diamond hilt, never drawn but once at May Fair;” eyebrow brushes, a “pocket perspective,” a dozen pair of red-heeled shoes, three pair of red silk stockings, and an amber-headed cane. The beau’s “strong box” contains “five billets-doux, a Bath shilling, a crooked sixpence, a silk garter, a lock of hair, and three broken fans.” His book-case is instructive: on the upper shelf there are three bottles of diet-drink, two boxes of pills, a syringe, and _other_ mathematical instruments; on the second, there is a miscellaneous collection of lampoons, plays, tailors’ bills, and an almanack for the year 1700; the third shelf holds a bundle of unopened letters, indorsed “from the old gentleman,” with Toland’s ‘Christianity not Mysterious,’ and a paper of “patterns of several fashionable stuffs,”—Toland’s ‘Christianity’ being _stuff_ that was very fashionable at _that_ time. The lowest shelf of all reveals an odd shoe, a pair of snuffers, a French grammar, a mourning hatband, and half a bottle of usquebagh. These “effects” paint the beau of a by-gone time; and Fielding was the grand master of the _petits-maîtres_, who were the proprietors of this very varied property. There was however as great, as impudent, and as renowned a beau as he. He comes this way in a white hat, and his name is Nash. BEAU NASH. “N’achetez pas vos principes chez ce _Gentis homo_, homme de la nation.”—DE BONALD. The gaudiest flies spring from the most unsavoury of cradles, and Beau Nash was born in ill-odoured Swansea. He used to say, he “could not help it.” Like Liston, it had been his own intention to be born in Shropshire; but he and the grotesque comedian possessed not the privilege of the embryo saint, whose prayers procured his birth in the locality and at the period which best suited himself. Accordingly, Richard Nash was born at Swansea in the stirring year 1674. His very boyhood was brassy, as befitted so metallic a locality. In after years, when Nash was at the most brilliant epoch of his butterfly period, and it had for some time been remarked that, much as the Beau talked of other people, he never mentioned his own father, the Duchess of Queensberry, in her Grace’s usual familiar style, asked the meek Richard if he were ashamed of his sire, that he never mentioned him. “Nay, madam,” said Nash, “if I never name him, it is because he has reason to be ashamed of _me_.” It was the only humble speech which Nash ever uttered, and it had truth for its foundation.