As a man's life begins, faintly, and gives no token of
childhood's intensity and the expansion of youth and the perfection of
manhood, so it should also end, faintly. The King died a death that
was like the calm conclusion of a great, lurid poem. Quievit.
Yes, his life was a poem, a poem in the praise of Pleasure. And it is
right that we should think of him always as the great voluptuary. Only
let us note that his nature never became, as do the natures of most
voluptuaries, corroded by a cruel indifference to the happiness of
others. When all the town was agog for the fe^te to be given by the
Regent in honour of the French King, Sheridan sent a forged card of
invitation to Romeo Coates, the half-witted dandy, who used at this
time to walk about in absurd ribbons and buckles, and was the butt of
all the streetsters. The poor fellow arrived at the entrance of
Carlton House, proud as a peacock, and he was greeted with a
tremendous cheer from the bystanding mob, but when he came to the
lackeys he was told that his card was a hoax and sent about his
business. The tears were rolling down his cheeks as he shambled back
into the street. The Regent heard later in the evening of this sorry
joke, and next day despatched a kindly-worded message, in which he
prayed that Mr.
Pages:
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95