He had too another set of worshipers, who used to congregate about him at his favourite tavern, to listen to his favourite stories,—few and not well told,—to which they had listened till they could themselves have narrated them backwards. He recounted them ever _à propos des bottes_, and he was the hero of every one of them. Therein he shows as outdoing Fortunatus and all his servants. He was the swiftest runner, the most expert swimmer, the best swordsman, and—“Upon my soul, it’s true! D—n me! hem! egad!” He really had more wit than his stories would authorize us to suppose. Witness his suggestion at a county-town ball. The county ladies refused to dance in the same set with the town ladies. The rich tradesmen were indignant at the slight put upon their spouses, but the suggestive wit of Nash saved them. They made it known that if the county ladies and squires would not dance with the town wives and traders, the latter would refuse all further credit, and would call in their debts. The proud party immediately yielded, and a grand country-dance of reconciliation followed to the tune of ‘Money Musk.’ Still, despite his wit and his dazzling dress, Nash was naturally coarse. Fancy a modern master of the ceremonies saying aloud to a lady somewhat misshapen, and who, in reply to a question from him, had stated that she had come to Bath straight from London,—fancy such a dignitary exclaiming, “You may have come ‘straight’ from London, Madam, but you have got d—nably warped by the way!” The squires were bigger brutes than he, and so did not kick him; nay, they only laughed when this glittering potentate used to ask the ladies who declined to dance, “If by chance they had bandy legs, and were afraid of showing them?” The truth is, he feared nobody. He had refused knighthood at the hands of King William; and he did the same at the hands of Queen Anne. “I will have none of it, most gracious Madam,” said Nash, as if he were refusing to grant a favour; “but there is Sir William Read, the mountebank, whom your Majesty has knighted,—I shall be very happy to call him ‘brother.’” The Queen smiled, and passed on. This species of rudeness, which came over him in his later days, helped to empty the rooms. He no longer could boast of seventeen duchesses and countesses standing up in his first country-dance. He sometimes too got vexatiously repulsed, as in the case of a young lady whom he met in the Grove, leading a spaniel, and whom he asked if she knew the name of Tobit’s dog. “I know it well enough,” said the lady; “his name is Nash, and a very impudent dog he is.”