Mercurse cung hires 1 Bath and Tunbridge, which sal sırase umong them. Wst ease and open access first Kymi zem, mur pany tranght back to the metropolis; Kui Te De Vie Engăm by degrees became more refined by lessons in znaky furred from him.' Boys boys let us now be wise, for here is a fool coming in,' said De Clarke, eonversing gaily with Locke and other leamed friends when Nash's chariot stopped at the bonse. Bet Nish was no fool. No fool,' says K- M÷TIA -rould have controlled the unruly throng than focked to Bath year in year out, for half a century, and nowhere else was amenable to influence.' Whatever Nash may or may not have been, he must have had great strength of tharacter and a marked personality. There was a whimsical refinement in his person, dress, and behaviour, which was habitual to and sat so easily upon him that no stranger who came to Bath ever expressed any surprise at his uncommon manner and experience,' says the author of the Life of Quin.' Finally, to quote Douglas Jerrold in his · Beau Nash, A Comedy ': He is in Bath the despot of the mode, the Nero of the realm of shirts, the Tiberius of a silk stocking. 'Tis said his father was a blower of glass; and they who best know Nash, see in the son the confirmation of the legend. 'Tis certain our monarch started in life in a red coat; changed it for a Templar's suit of black; played and elbowed his way up the back-stairs of fashion; came to our city; championed the virtue of the wells against the malice of a physician; drove the doctor from his post; founded the Pump-room and the Assemblyhouse; mounted the throne of etiquette; put on her crown of peacock-plumes; and here he sits, Richard Nash, by the grace of impudence, King of Bath!' Such, then, was the great man who has come to welcome us strangers to the city, glad, and in a measure proud, to be his subjects for the nonce. He gives us advice as to the disposal of our time. First of all, we have to be up betimes and go to the Bath and thence to the Pump-room to drink the waters, Three glasses at three different times, the intervals between each glass enlivened by the harmony of a small band of music as well as by the conversation of the gay, the witty, or the forward.' Then into our chairs to be taken back to our hotel or lodgings for breakfast, unless, indeed, we are invited to a private or public breakfast at one of the Assembly-Rooms or Spring Gardens, on the other side of the Avon, opposite to the Grove, a sweet retreat laid out in walks and ponds and pastures of flowers. There are public breakfasts there every Monday and Thursday, to the accompaniment of French horns and clarionettes and occasionally vocal music, at a charge of 1s. 6d. a head. Private breakfast parties can be held there, without music, for a shilling a head; and in the open air too, if we affect the fashion and the weather be fine. It was not, perhaps, a very sumptuous repast, but there are the much-advertised 'Spring-garden cakes and rolls,' fresh each morning, and the celebrated 'Sally-Luns,' called after the confectioner of that name in Lilliput Alley: 'Here in the broiling sun we swallow tea, And, charm'd with tweedledum and tweedledee, We must, however, bear Thicknesse's advice in mind, and not imitate the subjects of his scorn, who 'will go on in loading their bodies with distemper, pain, and sorrow, till life is not worth accepting, and then repair to Bath, as if the aid of these fountains, without their own, were capable of working miracles. And yet' (he continues) 'I daily see people who professedly come to Bath for these purposes first drink three pints or a quart of the Bath Waters, and then sit down to a meal of Sally Luns or hot spungy rolls, rendered high by burnt butter. Such a meal few young men in full health can get over without feeling much inconvenience; and I have known and seen it produce almost instantaneous death to valetudinarians.' ('Valet. Guide,' p. 23.) 6 Sometimes after breakfast a dance is arranged, and a minuet or a cotillon performed on the lawns. Or perhaps it may have been a concert-breakfast we were at, the expenses being defrayed by the gentlemen and ladies invited. These entertainments,' says Wood (ii, 439), 'were esteemed as some of the politest of the place; they came to meer trifles to individuals; and such people of rank and fortune as were well skilled in music took a pleasure in joining on these occasions with the common band of performers.' And, as the expenses of these concertbreakfasts fell short of the subscription to them, not withstanding the tickets came to no more than 1s. 3d. apiece, we have the satisfaction of knowing that our pleasure is contributing to the funds of the General Hospital. Or, if we wish quiet or cheapness, we can breakfast by ourselves at a coffee-house on 'buttered rolls or Bath buns, not to be equalled elsewhere, with the best of chocolate, tea, or coffee, paying for each roll or bun the sum of fourpence, and sixpence for a dish of tea or a cup of coffee.' Thereafter, if we do not care for dancing so early, we can quietly read the papers in the Gentlemen's Coffee-house, our ladies going to their own, or we may attend a lecture on art or science. Young girls are not admitted into the Ladies' Coffee-house library, as 'the conversation turns upon politics, scandal, philosophy, and other subjects above our capacity' (so says Lydia Melford); but we are allowed to accompany them to the booksellers' shops, which are charming places of resort, where we read novels, plays, pamphlets, and newspapers for so small a subscription as a crown a quarter; and in these offices of intelligence (as my brother calls them) all the reports of the day and all the private transactions of the Bath are first entered and discussed. From the bookseller's shop, we make a tour through the milliners and toymen, and commonly stop at Mr Gills, the pastry-cook, to take a jelly, a tart, or a small bason of vermicelli.' (Humphrey Clinker,' i, 79.) By noon we must be in full morning dress to appear on the Grand Parade or in Queen's Square, and promenade there to meet our friends and make arrangements for the evening; after which, if we are so disposed, we can walk in the meadows and refresh ourselves at one of the eating-houses on King's Mead. But we must not overdo the refreshment, as we dine at four in our rooms, and the dinner is good. 'Visitors' (says Wood) are sure to find their tables covered with the best of provisions of all kinds. Our mutton is celebrated, and that which is really fed upon our own Downs has a flavour beyond comparison; our butter cannot be exceeded, the herbage in the neighbourhood being sweet; the housewifery neat and clean; and we have fish in great plenty as fresh and as good as even the greatest epicure can desire. So that if good provisions may be called an addition to the pleasures of any place, Bath will yield to none in this point, especially since no city in the world can be furnished with better or cleaner cook-maids to dress them' (ii, 442). After dinner there are evening prayers to attend in the Abbey Church, as a preliminary to joining the entire company at the Pump-room, thence to tea at the Assembly-houses, and then visits or cards or dancing or a theatrical entertainment. There were always large balls at Harrison's, the old ball-room, on Tuesdays and at Thayer's, the newer one, on Fridays. Thayer's in our time was managed by Mrs Hayes, a widow who married Lord Hawly, who also kept a gaming-table, as the Duke of Chandos kept a lodging-house, and Archdeacon Hunt sold wine. The balls commenced at six o'clock and ended at eleven. Each ball opened with a minuet, danced by the lady and gentleman of the highest rank present. When this was concluded, the lady returned to her seat; and the Master of Ceremonies brought the gentleman to another partner, with whom she danced a second minuet, after which both retired. This ceremony was observed with every succeeding couple, each gentleman dancing with two ladies until all had taken part in this dance, which usually occupied a couple of hours. Formality was slightly relaxed after eight o'clock, when the country dances began; but etiquette was still so far insisted on that ladies of the highest rank stood up first. At nine o'clock there was an interval for tea, and sometimes for more elaborate refreshments, as Sarah Montague found that in 1745 there was a table of sweetmeats, jellies, wine, biscuits, cold ham and turkey, set behind two screens, which at nine o'clock were taken away and the table discovered. . . . Above stairs there was a hot supper for all that would take the trouble to go up.' After refreshment dancing was resumed until eleven o'clock, when Nash would enter the ball-room and hold up his hand to the musicians to stop. Then there was allowed a short time for the company to cool, when the ladies were handed to their chairs. And so the public evening came to an end. There was no theatre worthy of the name at Bath before 1747, but theatrical representations were common enough. Nash did not encourage private parties or coteries, 'acting upon the grand principle of congregating the devotees of fashionable amusement, regularly and frequently, into a brilliant focus.' 'Tis a ... crime here not to appear in public,' wrote Lady Orkney to the Countess of Suffolk on September 14, 1711. So, you see, we had plenty of amusement under King Nash, who took care that every hour of the day should have its diversion. Let 'The Register of Folly' describe the continual round of pleasure: 'At Bath I'm arrived, and I freely declare I do nothing but wonder, ask questions and stare; Such bustling and jostling, such hurries are made, You may vow there is nothing to do at Bath, but you 'It is a tedious circle of unmeaning hurry, anxiety, and fatigue, of fancied enjoyments and real chagrins. . . . Nothing can be more trifling than the life of a lady, nor more insipid than that of a gentleman, at Bath; the one is a constant series of flirting and gadding about, the other of sauntering from place to place without any scheme or pursuit. Scandal or fashions engross the conversation of the former; the news of the day, the price of fish, the history of the preceding night at the tavern, or savoury anticipations of their next debauch, furnish out the morning entertainment of the latter.' Elizabeth Montagu is also severe in her strictures. 'I think no place can be less agreeable,' she writes. "How d'ye do?" is all one hears in the morning, and "What's trumps?" in the afternoon.' After all, however, there is one serious business to be got through-bathing-the real or imaginary pretext for most of the visits paid to Bath. There are five baths. 'The oldest, close by the Abbey Church, was the King's Bath, fifty-nine by forty feet, and when filled-in about nine and a |