o him with almost Persian idolatry. His letters
are alive with George Selwyn. The _bons-mots_ which Selwyn carelessly
dropped in his morning wall through St James's Street, are carefully
picked up by Walpole, and planted in his correspondence, like exotics in a
greenhouse. The careless brilliancies of conversation, which the one threw
loose about the club-rooms of the Court End, are collected by the other
and reset by this dexterous jeweller, for the sparklings and ornaments of
his stock in trade with posterity.

Yet it may reconcile those less gifted by nature and fortune to their
mediocrity; to know that those singular advantages by no means constitute
happiness, usefulness, moral dignity, or even public respect. Selwyn, as
the French Abbe said, "had nothing to do, and he did it." His possession
of fortune enabled him to be a lounger through life, and he lounged
accordingly. The conversations of the clubs supplied him with the daily
toys of his mind, and he never sought more substantial employment. Though
nearly fifty years in parliament, he was known only as a silent voter; and,
after a life of seventy-two years, he died, leaving three and twenty
thousand pounds of his savings to a girl who was not his daughter; and the
chief part of his estates to the Duke of Queensberry, an old man already
plethoric with wealth, of which he had never known the use, and already
dying.

His passion for attending executions was notorious and unaccountable,
except on the ground of that love of excitement which leads others to
drinking or the gaming-table. Those sights, from which human nature
shrinks, appear to have been sought for by Selwyn with an eagerness
resembling enjoyment. This strange propensity was frequently laughed at by
his friends. Alluding to the practice of criminals dropping a handkerchief
as a signal for the executioner, says Walpole, "George never thinks, but
_a la tete tranchee_. He came to town the other day to have a tooth drawn,
and told the man that he would drop his handkerchief for the signal."

Another characteristic anecdote is told on this subject. When the first
Lord Holland, a man of habitual pleasantry, was confined to his bed, he
heard that Selwyn, who had been an old friend, had called to enquire for
his health. "The next time Mr Selwyn calls," said he, "show him up; if I
am alive, I shall be delighted to see him; and, if I am dead, he will be
delighted to see me."

Walpole says, after telling a sto