And at length came the “end of an auld sang;” old-age, and with it infirmity and distress. He could still talk of not following prescriptions, because he had thrown them out of window; but the clergy at length took possession of the Beau, and so belaboured him with pamphlets, visits, exhortations to repentance, and menaces of the devil, that Nash, who, like Gallio, had cared for none of these things, became fairly bewildered, and feared death more than ever he had done. He was an awful coward in presence of that especial antagonist of beaux; but his cowardice of course was not respected, and he died in abject terror of dying. The year was that of 1761, and his age was then hard upon the patriarchal one of ninety years. He had few of the patriarchal virtues; but Bath, to whose corporation he bequeathed a “fifty pounds,” which I very much wish they may have got, honoured him with a public funeral, with more circumstantial pomp about it than if he had been an incarnation of all virtue, patriarchal, princely, and of every other degree. The multitude gazed weepingly, as though another dead Tasso were passing by to cold obstruction, and had left them a legacy of intellectual worth. The poor wretch had little to leave, save some _gaillard_ books, and some women’s toys and trinkets,—the relics of his beauhood, and the testimonies of his past power. As for the poets, they spoke of the defunct dandy as the “constellation of a heavenly sphere;” and he had epitaphs enough to make the very earth lie heavy upon the breast of Beau Nash. And now, good reader, having sojourned with two exclusively English beaux, like Fielding and Nash, we will, if you please, to Vienna, and tarry awhile with a sparkling beau of European reputation. “Place pour le Prince de Ligne!” THE PRINCE DE LIGNE. “This chub-faced fop Shines sleek with full cramm’d fat of happiness.” JOHN MARSTON: _Antonio’s Revenge_. The Prince de Ligne has, at least, the merit of being not only a “beau,” but a “brave.” The two professions are seldom united, but they were certainly to be found in this gallant coxcomb. The Prince, although ever faithful to the fortunes of the House of Hapsburg, was not himself of Austrian lineage. His patrimonial house, the Castle of Belveil, still stands in quaint supremacy over the modest village of Ligne, about six miles from Alt, in Belgium. It has endured seven centuries of change; and its gothic peculiarities, with its old-world garden, and its ancient hornbeam hedges, yet answer to the prolix description thereof given in the Prince’s published letters, as well as to the concise, if little majestic, line of Delille, who says of it in his ‘Jardins,’ “Belveil, tout à la fois magnifique et champêtre.”