’Soon as to Brookes’s thence thy footsteps bend
What gratulations thy approach attend! 
See Gibbon rap his box—­auspicious sign,
That classic compliment and wit combine;
See Beauclerk’s cheek a tinge of red surprise,
And friendship give what cruel health denies;

* * * * *

Of wit, of taste, of fancy we’ll debate,
If Sheridan for once be not too late. 
But scarce a thought on politics we’ll spare
Unless on Polish politics with Hare. 
Good-natured Devon! oft shall there appear
The cool complacence of thy friendly sneer;
Oft shall Fitzpatrick’s wit, and Stanhope’s ease,
And Burgoyne’s manly sense combine to please.

To show how high gaming ran in this assembly of wits, even so early at 1772, there is a memorandum in the books, stating that Mr. Thynne retired from the club in disgust, because he had only won L12,000 in two months.  The principal games at this period were quinze and faro.

Into this eligible club Richard Sheridan, who ten years before had been agreeing with Halhed on the bliss of making a couple of hundred pounds by their literary exertions, now essayed to enter as a member; but in vain.  One black-ball sufficed to nullify his election, and that one was dropped in by George Selwyn, who, with degrading littleness, would not have the son of an actor among them.  Again and again he made the attempt; again and again Selwyn foiled him; and it was not till 1780 that he succeeded.  The Prince of Wales was then his devoted friend, and was determined he should be admitted into the club.  The elections at that time took place between eleven at night and one o’clock in the morning, and the ‘greatest gentleman in Europe’ took care to be in the hall when the ballot began.  Selwyn came down as usual, bent on triumph.  The prince called him to him.  There was nothing for it; Selwyn was forced to obey.  The prince walked him up and down the hall, engaging him in an apparently most important conversation.  George Selwyn answered him question after question, and made desperate attempts to slip away.  The other George had always something more to say to him.  The long finger of the clock went round, and Selwyn’s long white fingers were itching for the black ball.  The prince was only more and more interested, the wit only more and more abstracted.  Never was the young George more lively, or the other more silent.  But it was all in vain.  The finger of the clock went round and round, and at last the members came out noisily from the balloting-room, and the smiling faces of the prince’s friends showed to the unhappy Selwyn that his enemy had been elected.