Brummell never recovered the effects of the wager which he won by telling “Wales” to “ring the bell,” and which order, although obeyed, was followed by another for “Mr. Brummell’s carriage.” He struggled indeed long, and not unsuccessfully, to retain his place among dandies and wits; but his _prestige_ gradually failed, play went against him, liabilities increased, and creditors were clamorous. He put a bold face on his ugly position, and was never more brilliant or at his ease than the last night he appeared at the Opera,—one Saturday night, when, with the Sunday before him, he had determined to fly leisurely to the Continent, and leave his creditors to regret their confidence in him. He was eloquent that night with an anecdote having reference to Weston, the famous tailor of Bond-street. “That fellow Weston,” said Brummell, “is an inimitable fellow,—a little defective perhaps in his ‘linings,’ but irreproachable for principle and button-holes. He came to London, Sir, without a shilling; and he counts more realized thousands than our fat friend does ‘frogs’ on his Brandenburg. He is not only rich, but brave; not only brave, but courteous; and not alone courteous, but candid. The other day he was coming up from some d—d place on the coast, by that thing, the—the—stage-coach.” (It was Brummell’s boast,—not a true one, as it was with the last Marquis of Bath, who died full of years,—that he had never ridden by a “public” conveyance of any kind, whether by sea or land.) But to resume: “There were two women in the coach,” said Brummell, “two deucedly pretty women, and an over-dressed fellow, who was of course an ass; and who was so over-civil to the prettier of the two, that the persecuted creature appealed to quiet little Weston for protection. Weston, Sir, talked to the fellow with an _aplomb_ that would have done honour to either of my friends the Lord Primate or the Lord Chancellor. The brute,—not the tailor, but the ‘gentleman,’—was deaf to remonstrance, and ruder than ever. Thereupon, Weston, without losing his self-possession, stopped the coach, dragged the astonished fellow out, explained to the outside passengers the state of the case, and found his challenge to fight received with acclamations by everybody but his designated opponent. He compelled his unwilling adversary, however, to stand upon the defensive, and a most terrible thrashing he gave him. But his _coup de grâce_, Sir,” said Brummell, “was the most finished thing I ever heard of. Weston, Sir, picked him up from the ground, held him at arm’s length, and in a cruel loud voice exclaimed to him, ‘Now, Sir, it may be a pleasure to you and to your friends, to know that you have not only been well licked, but you have been licked by a tailor! ’ “From this time forth,” continued Brummell, after the generally excited laugh had subsided, “I shall religiously pay my tailors’ bills. The act of Weston has heroified the profession.”