all kinds of arguments to retain the child; and a long correspondence took place, which the marchesa begins with, ‘My very dear friend,’ and many affectionate expressions, and concludes with a haughty ‘Sir,’ and her opinion that his conduct was ‘devilish.’  The affair was, therefore, clearly a violent quarrel, and Selwyn was obliged at last to give up the child.  He had a carriage fitted up for her expressly for her journey; made out for her a list of the best hotels on her route; sent his own confidential man-servant with her, and treasured up among his ‘relics’ the childish little notes, in a large scrawling hand, which Mie-Mie sent him.  Still more curious was it to see this complete man of the world, this gambler for many years, this club-lounger, drinker, associate of well-dressed blasphemers, of Franciscans of Medmenham Abbey, devoting, not his money only, but his very time to this mere child, leaving town in the height of the season for dull Matson, that she might have fresh air; quitting his hot club-rooms, his nights spent at the piquet-table, and the rattle of the dice, for the quiet, pleasant terraces of his country-house, where he would hold the little innocent Mie-Mie by her tiny hand, as she looked up into his shrivelled dissipated face; quitting the interchange of wit, the society of the Townshends, the Walpoles, the Williamses, the Edgecumbes; all the jovial, keen wisdom of Gilly, and Dick, and Horace, and Charles, as they called one another, for the meaningless prattle, the merry laughter of this half-English, half-Italian child, It redeems Selwyn in our eyes, and it may have done him real good:  nay, he must have felt a keen refreshment in this change from vice to innocence; and we understand the misery he expressed, when the old bachelor’s one little companion and only pure friend was taken away from him.  His love for the child was well known in London society; and of it did Sheridan’s friends take advantage, when they wanted to get Selwyn out of Brookes’, to prevent his black-balling the dramatist.  The anecdote is given in the next memoir.

In his later days Selwyn still haunted the clubs, hanging about, sleepy, shrivelled, dilapidated in face and figure, yet still respected and dreaded by the youngsters, as the ‘celebrated Mr. Selwyn.’  The wit’s disease—­gout—­carried him off at last, in 1791, at the age of seventy-two.

He left a fortune which was not contemptible:  L33,000 of it were to go to Mie-Mie—­by this time a young lady—­and as the Duke of Queensberry, at his death, left her no less than L150,000, Miss was by no means a bad match for Lord Yarmouth.[6] See what a good thing it is to have three papas, when two of them are rich!  The duke made Lord Yarmouth his residuary legatee, and between him and his wife divided nearly half-a-million.

[6:  Afterwards the well-known and dissolute Marquis of Hertford.]

Let us not forget in closing this sketch of George Selwyn’s life, that, gambler and reprobate as he was, he possessed some good traits, among which his love of children appears in shining colours.