Had it been his sister,
No one could have missed her.
Had it been the whole generation,
Still better for the nation:
But since ’tis only Fred,
Who was alive and is dead,
There is no more to be said.
I have not mentioned among those who were the frequenters of his court the name of Lady Huntingdon. Frederick had the good sense to appreciate Lady Huntingdon, and he did not despise her because of a little misdirected enthusiasm. On missing her from his circle, he enquired of the gay, but subsequently the godly, Lady Charlotte Edwin, where Lady Huntingdon could be, that he no longer saw her at his court. ‘Oh, I dare say,’ exclaimed the unconcerned Lady Charlotte—‘I dare say she is praying with her beggars!’ Frederick had the good sense and the courage to turn sharply round upon her, and say: ‘Lady Charlotte, when I am dying I think I shall be happy to seize the skirt of Lady Huntingdon’s mantle to lift me up to Heaven.’ This phrase was not forgotten when the adapter of Cibber’s ‘Nonjuror’ turned that play into the ‘Hypocrite,’ and, introducing the fanatic Mawworm, put into his mouth a sentiment uttered for the sake of the laugh which it never failed to raise, but which originated, in sober sadness, with Frederick, Prince of Wales.
The character of Caroline’s son was full of contradictions. He had low tastes, but he also possessed those of a gentleman and a prince. When the ‘Rambler’ first appeared, he so enjoyed its stately wisdom that he sought after the author, in order to serve him if he needed service. His method of ‘serving’ an author was not mere lip compliment. Pope, indeed, might be satisfied with receiving from him a complimentary visit at Twickenham. The poet there was on equal terms with the prince; and when the latter asked how it was that the author who hurled his shafts against kings could be so friendly towards the son of a king, Pope somewhat pertly answered, that he who dreaded the lion might safely enough fondle the cub. But Frederick could really be princely to authors; and what is even more, he could do a good action gracefully, an immense point where there is a good action to be done. Thus to Tindal he sent a gold medal worth forty guineas; and to dry and dusty Glover, for whose ‘Leonidas’ he had much respect, he sent a note for 500l. when the poet was in difficulties. This handsome gift, too, was sent unasked. The son of song was honoured and not humiliated by the gift. It does not matter whether Lyttelton, or any one else, taught him to be the patron of literature and literary men; it is to his credit that he recognised them, acknowledged their services, and saw them with pleasure at his little court, often giving them precedence over those whose greatness was the mere result of the accident of birth.
The prince not only protected poets but he wooed the Muses. Those shy ladies, however, loved him none the better for being a benefactor to their acknowledged children. The rhymes of Frederick were generally devoted to the ecstatic praises of his wife. The matter was good, but the manner was execrable. The lady deserved all that was said, but her virtues merited a more gracefully skilful eulogist. The reasoning was perfect, but the rhymes halted abominably. But how could it be otherwise? Apollo himself would not stoop to inspire a writer who, while piling up poetical compliments above the head of his blameless wife, was paying adoration, at all events not less sincere, to most worthless ladies of the court? The apparently exemplary father within the circle of home, where presided a beautiful mother over a bright young family, was a wretched libertine outside of that circle. His sin was great, and his taste of the vilest. His ‘favourites’ had nothing of youth, beauty, or intellect to distinguish them, or to serve for the poor apology of infidelity. Lady Archibald Hamilton was plain and in years when she enjoyed her bad pre-eminence. Miss Vane was impudent, and a maid of honour by office; nothing else: while Lady Middlesex was ‘short and dark, like a cold winter’s day,’ and as yellow as a November morning. Notwithstanding this, he played the father and husband well. He loved to have his children with him, always appeared most happy when in the bosom of his family, left them with regret, and met them again with smiles, kisses, and tears. He walked the streets unattended, to the great delight of the people; was the presiding Apollo at great festivals, conferred the prizes at rowings and racings, and talked familiarly with Thames fishermen on the mysteries of their craft. He would enter the cottages of the poor, listen with patience to their twice-told tales, and partake with relish of the humble fare presented to him. So did the old soldier find in him a ready listener to the story of his campaigns and the subject of his petitions; and never did the illustriously maimed appeal to him in vain. He was a man to be loved in spite of all his vices. He would have been adored had his virtues been more, or more real. But his virtue was too often—like his love for popular and parliamentary liberty—rather affected than real; and at all events, not to be relied upon.