el
over Europe with them: we can accompany them not only to the public
places, but to their country-houses and private society. Here is a whole
company of them; wits and prodigals; some persevering in their bad ways;
some repentant, but relapsing; beautiful ladies, parasites, humble
chaplains, led captains. Those fair creatures whom we love in Reynolds's
portraits, and who still look out on us from his canvases with their sweet
calm faces and gracious smiles--those fine gentlemen who did us the honour
to govern us; who inherited their boroughs; took their ease in their
patent places; and slipped Lord North's bribes so elegantly under their
ruffles--we make acquaintance with a hundred of these fine folks, hear
their talk and laughter, read of their loves, quarrels, intrigues, debts,
duels, divorces; can fancy them alive if we read the book long enough. We
can attend at Duke Hamilton's wedding, and behold him marry his bride with
the curtain-ring: we can peep into her poor sister's death-bed: we can see
Charles Fox cursing over the cards, or March bawling out the odds at
Newmarket: we can imagine Burgoyne tripping off from St. James's Street to
conquer the Americans, and slinking back into the club somewhat
crestfallen after his beating: we can see the young king dressing himself
for the Drawing-room and asking ten thousand questions regarding all the
gentlemen: we can have high life or low, the struggle at the Opera to
behold the Violetta or the Zamperini--the Macaronis and fine ladies in
their chairs trooping to the masquerade or Madame Cornelys's--the crowd at
Drury Lane to look at the body of Miss Ray, whom Parson Hackman has just
pistolled--or we can peep into Newgate, where poor Mr. Rice the forger is
waiting his fate and his supper. "You need not be particular about the
sauce for his fowl," says one turnkey to another: "for you know he is to
be hanged in the morning." "Yes," replies the second janitor, "but the
chaplain sups with him, and he is a terrible fellow for melted butter."

Selwyn has a chaplain and parasite, one Dr. Warner, than whom Plautus, or
Ben Jonson, or Hogarth, never painted a better character. In letter after
letter he adds fresh strokes to the portrait of himself, and completes a
portrait not a little curious to look at now that the man has passed away;
all the foul pleasures and gambols in which he revelled, played out; all
the rouged faces into which he leered, worms and skulls; all the fine
ge