which his grace had submitted to his inspection, 'do you call this
_thing_ a coat?' Again, meeting a noble acquaintance who wore shoes in
the morning, he stopped and asked him what he had got upon his feet.
'Oh! shoes are they,' quoth he, with a well bred sneer, 'I thought they
were slippers.' He was even ashamed of his own brother, and when the
latter came to town, begged him to keep to the back streets till his new
clothes were sent home. Well might his friend the Regent say, that he
was 'a mere tailor's dummy to hang clothes upon.'

But in reality Brummell was more. He had some sharpness and some taste.
But the former was all brought out in sneers, and the latter in
snuff-boxes. His whole mind could have been put into one of these. He
had a splendid collection of them, and was famous for the grace with
which he opened the lid of his box with the thumb of the hand that
carried it, while he delicately took his pinch with two fingers of the
other. This and his bow were his chief acquirements, and his reputation
for manners was based on the distinction of his manner. He could not
drive in a public conveyance, but he could be rude to a well-meaning
lady; he never ate vegetables--_one_ pea he confessed to--but he did not
mind borrowing from his friends money which he knew he could never
return. He was a great gentleman, a gentleman of his patron's school--in
short, a well-dressed snob. But one thing is due to Brummell: he made
the assumption of being 'a gentleman' so thoroughly ridiculous that few
men of keen sense care now for the title: at least, not as a
class-distinction. Nor is it to be wondered at; when your tailor's
assistant is a 'gentleman,' and would be mightily disgusted at being
called anything else, you, with your indomitable pride of caste, can
scarcely care for the patent.

Brummell's claim to the title was based on his walk, his coat, his