Walpole, speaking of the witty and notorious Lady Townshend, writes: "On Sunday, George Selwyn was strolling home to dinner. He saw my Lady Townshend's coach stop at Caraccioli's chapel. He watched it, saw her go in; her footman laughed; he followed. She went up to the altar, a woman brought her a cushion; she knelt, crossed herself, and prayed. He stole up, and knelt by her. Conceive her face, if you can, when she turned and found him close to her. In his demure voice, he said, 'Pray, madam, how long has your ladyship left the pale of our church?" She looked furies, and made no answer. Next day he went to her, and she turned it off upon curiosity; but is anything more natural? No, she certainly means to go armed with every viaticum; the Church of England in one hand, Methodism in the other, and the Host in her mouth."

Selwyn's wit at the club is very amusing. One night, at White's, Sir L. Fawkener, the postmaster-general, was losing a large sum at piquet, when Selwyn, pointing to the successful player, said: "See how he is robbing the mail." Observing Mr. Speaker Ponsonby tossing about bank-bills, at a hazard-table, at Newmarket, "Look," said Selwyn," how easily the Speaker passes the money-bills."

Walpole observing that there had existed the same indecision, irresolution, and want of system in the politics of Queen Anne, that now distinguished those of the reign of George III, added, "But there is nothing new under the sun." "No," said Selwyn, "nor under the grandson."

A namesake of Charles Fox having been hung at Tyburn, the latter inquired of Selwyn whether he had attended the execution? "No," replied George, "I make a point of never frequenting rehearsals.

Selwyn was once wearied with the inquiries of a fellow-passenger in a stage-coach as to the state of his health. At length, to the repeated question of "How are you now, sir?" Selwyn replied: "Very well, I thank you and I mean to continue so for the rest of the journey."

A member of the Foley family having hurried off to the Continent to avoid the importunities of his creditors,-"It is a pass-over," remarked Selwyn, "that will not be much relished by the Jews." Selwyn held several Government appointments, to which the wits of the day said, was added the post of "Receiver General of Waif and Stray Jokes."

In Parliament, he often amused the House, during a long debate, by snoring in unison with the First Minister, Lord North. And when Burke was wearying his hearers by those long speeches which obtained for him the name of the "Dinner-bell," a nobleman entering

the House just as Selwyn was quitting it, inquired, "Is the House up?" "No," replied George, but Burke is."

66

Selwyn resided in Cleveland-row, St. James's, in the house rendered memorable by the quarrel which took place between Sir Robert Walpole and Lord Townsend, in the reign of George I., when the First Minister and Secretary of State seized each other by the throat; a scene which Gay burlesqued in the Beggar's Opera, under the characters of Peachum and Lockit.

When Lord Weymouth was about to be married, or, as he said, turned off, Selwyn told him he wondered that he had not been turned off before, for he still sat up drinking all night and gaming.

Selwyn happening to be at Bath when it was nearly empty, was induced, for the mere purpose of killing time, to cultivate the acquaintance of an elderly gentleman he was in the habit of meeting in the rooms. In the height of the following season George encountered his old associate in St. James's-street. He endeavoured to

pass unnoticed, but in vain. "What! don't you recollect me?" exclaimed the cuttee." I recollect you perfectly," replied Selwyn, "and when I next go to Bath I shall be most happy to become acquainted with you again."

Bruce was one day asked before Selwyn if the Abyssinians have any music? He replied, "They have one Lyre." George whispered his neighbour, "They have one less since he left the country.""

When a report was circulated that Sir Joshua Reynolds was to stand for the borough of Plympton on the next occasion of an election, the macaronies, club-men, and gentlemen generally laughed at the idea of an artist, or of a literary man, presuming to have a chance to get into the House of Commons. "He is not to be laughed at, however," said Selwyn; "he may very well succeed in being elected, for Sir Joshua is the ablest man I know on a canvas."

In Walpole's time, an artist made a sketch as a companion to Copley's "Death of Lord Chatham.". As the latter exhibits all the great men of Britain, the former was to record the Beauties. The subject chosen was the Daughter of Pharaoh saving Moses. The Princess-Royal was the Egyptian Infanta, accompanied by the Duchesses of Gloucester, Cumberland, Devonshire, Rutland, Lady Duncannon, &c. The sketch was to be seen over against Brooks's : George Selwyn said he could recommend a better companion for this piece, which should be the Sons of Pharaoh (faro) at the opposite

house.

MASQUERADES.

During the food-riots in London, in 1772, when the condition of the middle and lower classes was one of extreme distress, they found

little sympathy among persons of fashion. In the very midst of these distresses sprung up a rage for masquerades. At one of these licentious entertainments given at the Pantheon, in Oxford-street, it was calculated that not less than 10,000 guineas were expended by the revellers in dress and other luxuries. The trade of the metropolis would have profited by this, to a certain extent, had payment of liabilities been a recognised duty of the time. As a sample of the sort of persons, and their conduct at these orgies may be cited from the various reports in different journals, the presence of groups of gentlemen from the universities, some of them attired as "Tom-fools, with cap and bells;" of clergymen, who gained applause for originality by trying to represent "old sober hackney-coachmen ;" and of ladies, the Duchess of Ancaster at their head, in male attire. Dr. Goldsmith is named among those who masqueraded in "an old English dress ;" and after lists of noble ladies, descriptions of their dresses, and praises of their wit and beauty, we find a sample of the easy virtue of the times in the presence of a group of a lady abbess, and her nuns." The licence of speech, action, and allusion was astounding. At the Pantheon, the excited crew generally finished by breakfasting at daylight on the remains of the supper, and then going home "gloriously drunk." At Cornely's masquerades in Soho-square, after a supper, marked by hard drinking and immodest singing, "which no lady need leave save those who are too immodest to stay," as the formula ràn, the custom was to fling open the windows and pelt the eager, hungry, thirsty, and howling crowd below with half-empty bottles and the remains of the supper. The very Queen of Beauty at these orgies was young Gertrude Conway, niece of General Conway, daughter of Francis, first Marquis of Hertford, and only just married to George Villiers Earl of Grandison. She was the Queen of Fashion as well as of beauty; and she excited the greatest admiration by giving frocks and tambour-waistcoats, as undress livery to her servants; and by the splendour of her chairmen, who never carried her abroad without feathers in their hats. This gay young wife died in 1782, in the thirty-second year of her age. In her masquerades lost their great patroness.

This species of entertainment was never encouraged by George III., at whose request Foote abstained from giving a masquerade at the Little Theatre in the Haymarket. There were some curious scruples entertained even by people of pleasure at this time. The most fashionable of them appeared at the theatre in Lent attired in mourning; and at the same season masquerades were considered as out of place; but these scrupulous persons found a method of recon eiling their sense of religion with their taste for dissipation:

"In Lent, if masquerades displease the town,

Call 'em ridottos and they still go down."

Madame Teresa Cornelys, a German by birth, and by profession a public singer, was one of the entrepreneurs of masquerades. Walpole describes her as a singular dame, and "the Heidegger of the age." She took Carlisle House, on the east side of Soho-square, enlarged it, and established here assemblies and balls by subscription. At first they scandalized, but soon drew in both righteous and ungodly. She went on building, and made her house a fairy palace for balls, concerts, and masquerades. Her opera, which she called "Harmonic Meetings," was splendid and charming. To avoid the Act, she pretended to take no money, and had the assurance to advertise that the subscription was to provide coats for the poor, for she vehemently courted the mob, and gained their favour. She then declared her masquerades were for the benefit of commerce. At last the bench of magistrates decided against her, and she was compelled to shut up the house. Her improvidence then reduced her to become a "vendor of asses' milk" at Knightsbridge; but she sank still lower, and died in 1797, in the Fleet Prison.

VAILS TO SERVANTS.

The giving of vails to servants was carried to great excess in the last century. Dr. King tells of a Lord Poor, a Roman Catholic peer of Ireland, who lived upon a small pension which Queen Anne had granted him. The Duke of Ormonde often invited him to dinner, and he as often excused himself. At last the duke kindly expostulated with him, and would know the reason why he so constantly refused to be one of his guests. My Lord Poor then honestly confessed that he could not afford it; but," said he, "if your Grace will put a guinea into my hands as often as you are pleased to invite me to dine, I will not decline the honour of waiting on you." This was done, and Lord Poor was afterwards a frequent guest at the Duke's, in St. James's-square.

Lord Taaffe, of Ireland, a general officer in the Austrian service, who resided for a time in England, had another way of meeting this subject of vails. When his friends, who had dined with him, were going away, he always attended them to the door; and if they offered any money to the servant who opened it (for he never suffered but one servant to appear), he always prevented them, saying, in his manner of speaking English, "If you do give it, give it to me, for it was I that did buy the dinner."

It was at Newcastle House, at the north-west angle of Lincoln's Inn Fields, then the residence of the Duke of Newcastle, that the

old and expensive custom of "vails-giving" received its death-blow Sir Timothy Waldo, on his way from the Duke's dinner-table to his carriage, put a crown into the hand of the cook, who returned it, saying, "Sir, I do not take silver." "Don't you, indeed!" said Sir Timothy, putting the crown into his pocket; "then I do not give gold." Jonas Hanway's "Eight Letters to the Duke of" had their origin in Sir Timothy's complaint.

AMENITIES OF SARAH, DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH.

One of her Grace's principal charms was a prodigious abundance of fine hair; one day, at her toilet, in anger to her heroic lord, she cut off her commanding tresses, and flung them in his face.

Her eldest daughter and she were long at variance, and never reconciled. When the younger Duchess exposed herself by placing a monument and silly epitaph of her own composition and bad spelling, to Congreve, in Westminster Abbey, her mother, quoting the words, said, "I know not what happiness she might have in his company, but I am sure it was no honour." With her youngest daughter, the Duchess of Montagu, old Sarah agreed as ill. "I wonder," said the Duke of Marlborough to them, that you cannot agree, you are so alike!" Of her grand-daughter, the Duchess of Manchester, she affected to be fond. One day, she said to her, "Duchess of Manchester, you are a good creature, and I love you mightily-but you have a mother!" "And she has a mother!" answered the Duchess of Manchester, who was all spirit, justice, and honour, and could not suppress sudden truth.

Sarah, who had risen to greatness and independent wealth by the weakness of a Queen, forgot, like the Duke d'Epernon, her own unmerited exaltation, and affected to brave successive courts, though sprung from the dregs of one. When the Prince of Orange came over, in 1734, to marry the Princess Royal Anne, a boarded gallery, with a penthouse roof, was erected for the procession from the windows of the great drawing-room at St. James's across the garden to the Lutheran Chapel in the Friary. The marriage was deferred for some weeks, and the boarded gallery remained, darkening the windows of Marlborough House. The Duchess cried, "I wonder when my neighbour George will take away his orange-chest!"—which the gallery did resemble.

Great was her fury when Henry Fox prevailed on the second Duke to go over to the court. With her warm, intemperate humour, she said, "That was the Fox that had stolen her goose!" Repeated injuries at last drove the Duke to go to law with her, fearing that even no lawyer would come up to the Billingsgate with which she