ANOTHER of the Prince's companions, until they quarrelled, was Charles Howard, eleventh Duke of Norfolk, who possessed all the habits and attributes of a hog.[64] Slovenly and dirty in his attire, he was rarely washed, but when he was drunk, and then by his servants; and the story is told that one day he was complaining to Dudley North that he suffered terribly from rheumatism, for which he could find no cure, and was answered by the question, 'Pray, my lord, did you ever try a clean shirt?'

Hear what the anonymous writer of 'The Clubs of London,' says of the old glutton, when writing of the Beefsteak Club. Speaking of a visit to that club in 1799, he says:

'I do not recollect all who were present on that day, but I particularly remarked John Kemble, Cobb of the India House, his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence, Sir John Cox Hippisley, Charles Morris, Ferguson of Aberdeen, and his Grace of Norfolk. This nobleman took the chair when the cloth was removed. It is a place of dignity, elevated some steps above the table, and decorated with the various insignia of the Society; amongst which was suspended the identical small cocked-hat in which Garrick used to play the part of Ranger. As soon as the clock strikes fives, a curtain draws up, discovering the kitchen, in which the cooks are dimly seen plying their several offices, through a sort of grating, with this appropriate motto from Macbeth inscribed over it

'"If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly."

'But the steaks themselves;—they were of the highest order, and I can never forget the goodwill with which they were devoured. In this respect, no one surpassed the Duke of Norfolk. He was totus in illis. Eyes, hands, mouth, were all intensely exercised; not a faculty played the deserter. His appetite, literally, grew by what it fed on. Two or three succeeding steaks, fragrant from the gridiron, rapidly vanished. In my simplicity, I thought that his labours were over. I was deceived, for I observed him rubbing a clean plate with a shallot, to prepare it for the reception of another.

'A pause of ten minutes ensued, and his Grace rested upon his knife and fork; but it was only a pause, and I found that there was a good reason for it. Like the epic, a rump of beef has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The palate of an experienced beef steaker can discern all its progressive varieties, from the first cut to the last; and he is a mere tyro in the business, who does not know, that towards the middle, there lurks a fifth essence, the perfect ideal of tenderness and flavour. Epicurism itself, in its fanciful combinations of culinary excellence, never dreamed of anything surpassing it. For this cut, the Duke had wisely tarried, and, for this, he re-collected his forces. At last he desisted, but more, I thought, from fatigue than satiety: lassatus non satiatus. I need not hint, that powerful irrigations of port encouraged and relieved, at intervals, the organs engaged in this severe duty.

'Nor could I help admiring that his Grace, proverbially an idolater of the table, should have dined with such perfect complacency upon beef steaks:—he, whose eyes and appetite roved every day amidst the rich variety of a ducal banquet, to which ocean, air and earth, paid their choicest contingents. His palate, I thought, would sigh, as in captivity, for the range in which it was to expatiate. A member, who sat next me, remarked that in beef steaks there was considerable variety, and he had seen the most finished gourmands about town quite delighted with the simple repast of the Society. But, with regard to the Duke of Norfolk, he hinted that it was his custom, on a beef steak day, to eat a preliminary dish of fish in his own especial box at the Piazza, and then adjourn time enough for the beef steaks. He added also, and I heartily concurred in his remark, that a mere dish of fish could make no more difference to the iron digestion of his Grace, than a tenpenny nail, more or less, in that of an ostrich.

'After dinner, the Duke was ceremoniously ushered to the chair, and invested with an orange coloured ribbon, to which a silver medal, in the form of a gridiron, was appended.... I was astonished to see how little effect the sturdy port wine of the Society produced on his adamantine constitution; for the same abhorrence of a vacuum, which had disposed him to do such ample justice to his dinner, showed itself no less in his unflinching devotion to the bottle.'[65]

Sir N. Wraxall, in his 'Historical Memoirs of My Own Time ... 1772 to 1784,' writes thus of him: 'Drunkenness was in him an hereditary vice, transmitted down, probably, by his ancestors from the Plantagenet times, and inherent in his formation. His father indulged equally in it, but he did not manifest the same capacities as his son, in resisting the effects of wine. It is a fact that, after laying his father and all the guests under the table at the Thatched House Tavern in St. James's Street, he has repaired to another festive party in the vicinity, and there recommenced the unfinished convivial rites.'

The caricaturists openly made fun of his hoggish propensities, as did the public press, vide these two extracts from the Times (March 1, 1793):

'On the late Inundation in Old Palace Yard.

February 17, 1794.—'The Duke of Norfolk is attacked by the Hydrophobia, he can't bear the sight of water. His physicians have prescribed Wine. The Marquis of Stafford, Marquis of Bath, and Lord Thurlow who were present, sanctified this prescription with their most hearty consent.'

And yet it is over this wretched old sensualist that Thackeray, in his 'Four Georges,' gets maudlinly sentimental!

'And now I have one more story of the bacchanalian sort, in which Clarence and York, and the very highest personage of the realm, the great Prince Regent, all play parts. The feast took place at the Pavilion at Brighton, and was described to me by a gentleman who was present at the scene. In Gillray's caricatures, and amongst Fox's jolly associates, there figures a great nobleman, the Duke of Norfolk, called Jockey of Norfolk in his time, and celebrated for his table exploits. He had quarrelled with the Prince, like the rest of the Whigs; but a sort of reconciliation had taken place; and now, being a very old man, the Prince invited him to dine and sleep at the Pavilion, and the old Duke drove over from his Castle of Arundel with his famous equipage of grey horses, still remembered in Sussex.

'The Prince of Wales had concocted, with his royal brothers, a notable scheme for making the old man drunk. Every person at table was enjoined to take wine with the Duke—a challenge which the old toper did not refuse. He soon began to see that there was a conspiracy against him; he drank glass for glass; he overthrew many of the brave. At last, the First Gentleman of Europe proposed bumpers of brandy. One of the royal brothers filled a great glass for the Duke. He stood up and tossed off the drink. "Now," says he, "I will have my carriage, and go home." The Prince urged upon him his previous promise to sleep under the roof where he had been so generously entertained. "No," he said, he had had enough of such hospitality. A trap had been set for him; he would leave the place at once, and never enter its doors more.

'The carriage was called, and came; but, in the half hour's interval, the liquor had proved too potent for the old man: his host's generous purpose was answered, and the old man's grey head lay stupefied on the table. Nevertheless, when his post chaise was announced, he staggered to it as well as he could, and stumbling in, bade the postilions drive to Arundel. They drove him for half an hour round and round the Pavilion lawn; the poor old man fancied he was going home. When he awoke that morning he was in bed at the Prince's hideous house at Brighton. You may see the place now for sixpence: they have fiddlers there every day; and, sometimes, buffoons and mountebanks hire the Riding House, and do their tricks and tumbling there. The trees are still there, and the gravel walks round which the poor old sinner was trotted. I can fancy the flushed faces of the royal princes as they support themselves at the portico pillars, and look on at old Norfolk's disgrace; but I can't fancy how the man who perpetrated it continued to be called a gentleman.'

Another of the Prince's intimates and visitor to the Pavilion was that disreputable old rouÉ William Douglas, third Earl of March and fourth Duke of Queensberry, commonly called 'Old Q,' well known on the turf as a racehorse-owner and betting man, a thorough gambler and finished debauchee.

Nearly forty years older than the Prince, he was his Mentor in every kind of vice, and rooked him of thousands of pounds at play and in betting.

Thackeray, in 'The Virginians,' portrays him under no pseudonym. He is called simply by his title of Lord March. In Chapter XXVI. Mr. Warrington is at the White Horse Tavern, where are Lords Chesterfield and March:

'"My Lord Chesterfield's deuce is deuce ace," says my Lord March. "His Lordship can't keep away from the cards, or dice."

'"My Lord March has not one, but several devils. He loves gambling, he loves horse-racing, he loves betting, he loves drinking, he loves eating, he loves money, he loves women, and you have fallen into bad company, Mr. Warrington, when you lighted upon his Lordship. He will play you for every acre you have in Virginia."

'"With the greatest pleasure in life, Mr. Warrington!" interposes my Lord.

'"And for all your tobacco, and for all your spices, and for all your slaves, and for all your oxen and asses."

* * * * *

'"Unfortunately, my Lord, the tobacco, and the slaves, and the asses, and the oxen, are not mine, as yet. I am just of age, and my mother—scarce twenty years older—has quite as good chance of long life as I have."

'"I will bet that you survive her. I will pay you a sum now, against four times the sum to be paid at her death. I will set a fair sum over this table against the reversion of your estate in Virginia at the old lady's departure."'

Certainly, it is pleasant to turn from such companions of Florizel's to another, whose only fault was his conviviality. I mean Captain Charles Morris, punch-maker and bard to the Beefsteak Society, where he met with the Prince, at his admission into the society, in 1785; and the author of the 'Clubs of London' thus describes him:

'But Charles Morris—can anyone think of the Beefsteaks without including thy revered image in the picture? The faculties of man are not equal to an abstraction so metaphysical. For many, many years, during which several of man's autumnal generations have fallen, he has been faithful to his post. He is the bard of the Society, who, in the person of this, her favourite disciple, may still boast non caret vate sacro, fortune has not yet struck this old deer of the forest. You should have seen him, as was his wont at the period I am speaking of, making the Society's punch, his ancient and rightful office. It was pleasing to see him at his laboratory at the side board, stocked with the varied products that enter into the composition of that nectareous mixture; then, smacking an elementary glass, or two, and giving a significant nod, the fiat of its excellence; and what could exceed the extasy with which he filled the glasses that thronged round the bowl; joying over its mantling beauties with an artist's pride, and distributing the fascinating draught

'"That flames and dances in its crystal bound."'

Morris's songs, which after his death were published in two volumes, under the title of 'Lyra Urbanica,' rendered him a welcome guest at Carlton House and the Pavilion; and, strange to say, he enjoyed the favour and countenance of Florizel, both as Prince and King, until the death of his royal patron.

We have a very good portrait of Captain Morris, dated July 1, 1789, with the lines:

These were some of the more notorious of the Prince's intimates at that time; some of the minor ones may be mentioned later on.

We hear very little of the Prince at Brighton in 1791. He went there, for the season, on June 13, and he soon had his old set round him. I can only find one record of their doings, and that is in the Sussex Weekly Advertiser of September 26: 'Between six and seven o'clock, on Monday morning last, the Prince, accompanied by Sir John Lade, in his curricle, drove through this town, on a shooting excursion, to Haremere, an estate belonging to Sir John; but no day ever proved more unfavourable to the sport, for the gamekeeper who attended on the occasion, with all his diligence, was unable to spring more than one solitary bird. About seven in the evening his Royal Highness returned here, and, after taking fresh horses, which were in readiness at the White Hart, proceeded on to Brighton.

'Lady Lade and the Barrys had the honour to be of the party. Her Ladyship, in rallying the Prince and Sir John, on their bad success, observed she thought even an object as large as a goose, might, with great safety, come in their way; but was, soon after, convinced of her error, by being presented with a goose, which the Prince and Sir John had shot in a neighbouring pond. The joke was accompanied with great pleasantry; and the farmer, who owned the goose, had the benefit of it, by receiving a handsome present from the Royal purse.'

In 1792 the Prince went down to Brighton earlier than usual—in April—and his regiment was quartered there for the defence of the coast; things on the Continent were very disturbed, and war with France broke out the next year. We read in the Sussex Weekly Advertiser of May 21: 'On Friday the 10th Regiment of Light Dragoons had a grand field day, in honour of the Prince; after which, his Royal Highness honoured the officers with his company to dinner, at the Old Ship tavern; and, the next morning, set out for town. The Prince is expected at Brighton this day, previous to the grand review of his regiment to-morrow, by Gen. Lascelles, on the Downs, near that place. On Friday next, the above regiment is to have another field day, in review order, at which the Duke and Duchess of York are expected to be present.'

The French Revolution was seething, and prudent people were leaving France. We read in the same newspaper: 'There has been, lately, a great importation of French Emigrants to Brighthelmstone. Last Wednesday, twelve of them, seemingly persons of distinction, passed through this town, in four post chaises, on their route to Dover, in order to embark there for Brussels. Another cargo of the same quality, has also been smuggled in an open boat to Bulverhithe,[66] on our coast, likewise on their way to the ex-Princes.'

En passant, let me just give one anecdote of the manners and customs of Brighton at this time re smuggling (Sussex Weekly Advertiser, August 27, 1792): 'On Wednesday last, a smuggling cutter, having been closely chased at sea, in order to lighten her lading, threw 300 tubs of spirits overboard, and, by means thereof, escaped her pursuers. The Brighton fishermen seeing many of the tubs float on a very rough sea before that town, swam out at the hazard of their lives and saved some of them. Two Revenue officers, who looked on while these hardy sons of Neptune buffeted the angry waves for the sake of their favourite grog, endeavoured to seize the fruits of their labour. But, one of them, in pursuing a woman, who had received a tub from her husband, or brother, fell down the bank and broke one of his legs, in a manner that the bone appeared through his stocking. The other, having gone down on the beach, in order more effectually to intercept his prey, was hustled by the crowd off one of the groins, and broke three of his ribs in the fall. Honest Jack, seeing his foes thus disabled, secured every tub that fell in his way, and in his dripping jacket, drank confusion to Excise.'

On August 27 Florizel gave a fÊte to celebrate his birthday, and this is a contemporary account of it (Sussex Weekly Advertiser, September 3): 'At the Prince's fÊte on Brighton Level, last Monday, no fewer than four thousand persons were supposed to have attended; the majority to feast their eyes, while the others feasted more substantially on a fine ox, with a proportionate quantity of bread and strong beer prepared for the occasion. The ox was taken from the fire about 3 o'clock, and very skilfully dissected by Mr. Russel, at the bottom of a large pit, while the spectators and expectants stood, in theatric gradation, on its sloping sides. The day proved very favourable to this rustic festivity. His Royal Highness's guests were very accommodating and good humoured to each other, until the strong beer began to operate. The Prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert looked on for a considerable time with great good humour, and had the satisfaction of hearing that no accident nor injury occurred in so large a concourse, except a few blackeyes and bloody noses, at the close of the evening.'

The French Revolution grew apace. On August 10 the Royal Swiss Guards were cut to pieces and 5,000 persons massacred. On August 26 there was a decree of the National Assembly against the priests, and 40,000 of them were exiled. From September 2 to 5 there was a fearful massacre in Paris; the prisons were broken open, and 1,200 persons, including 100 priests, were slain.

Of these priests Charlotte Smith speaks in her poem called 'The Emigrants':

'Scene—On the Cliffs to the Eastward of the Town of Brighthelmstone, in Sussex.

'Time—A morning in November, 1792.