What! tho' a boy! it may with pride be said:
A boy,—in England born,—in England bred;
Where freedom well becomes the earliest state;
For there the laws of liberty innate," &c. &c.
It may fairly be assumed that this boast was produced with such reiteration less through a feeling of sincerity than a desire of instituting odorous comparisons with the lad's grandpapa, who did not enjoy the honour of being born a Briton. George II., who with all his faults was no hypocrite, saw through this amiable purpose, and detested his son the more.
Besides, George II., though a worthy little man in some respects, was not remarkable for amiability of temper; and though he professed to be devotedly attached to his wife—after her death—his affection during her life was considerably suggested by that unconscious dread which a stupid husband has of a wife who is not only clever herself, but competent to gauge her husband's stupidity.[3] Still, with all his grievances against his son—and they were, doubtless, many—he ought to have studied proprieties a little more, when he heard of Prince Frederick's death; and that horrid "Fritz ist todt," whispered in the ear of the Countess of Yarmouth, displays an unforgiving spirit, hardly to be reconciled with the generally generous temper of George II.; for, like most peppery men, he was good natured.[4]
I have waded through all the authorities who have left us any account of the prince, and the conclusion arrived at is only a negative one. Lord Melcombe may be put out of court at once, for he evidently wrote under the influence of that feeling of gratitude which has been defined as a lively sense of favours to come. Having been bubbled by the father, he did not intend to spoil his game with the son,—especially as that son was the future fountain of all honours. But Frederick owed a great many of his bad qualities to this Bubb Dodington, who in more than one respect resembled the sillabub to which my Lord Chesterfield compared him; for he was sweet, cloying, and left a very unpleasant taste in the mouth. Surrounded by flatterers and sycophants, Frederick had just sufficient sense to see that he was being made a tool of; and he learned the art himself to perfection. It has been urged in his favour, that he patronised literature and art; but if he obtained any credit on that account, it was on the same principle as makes a one-eyed man a king among the blind. He condescended to visit Pope at Twickenham; and, in return, the poet immortalised him, by the delicate allusion conveyed in the two lines—
"And if yet higher the proud list should end,
Still, let me add, no follower but a friend."
But, granted this merit, the remaining qualities that make up the character of Frederick are of the most negative type. He was a spendthrift: he borrowed money unblushingly, careless as to where he obtained it, and with the very faintest expectation of repaying it. Though a father of seven children, he lived in open adultery with a lady, whose house in Pall Mall had a secret communication with Carlton House. He was pretty frequently in the habit of paying visits to fortune-tellers; and would go in disguise to see the bull-baiting at Hockley-in-the-Hole. Such is the residuum, when we take away the prestige of princely birth. Nor, had Frederick the good fortune to excite a hearty detestation, except in the case of his father: the people, generally, treated his death with the most profound contempt. Two men were heard talking of his decease in Leicester Fields:—"He has left a great many small children." "Ay," replied the other; "and, what is worse, they belong to our parish."[5] We may safely say of him, in the courtly language of Sir W. Wraxall: "As far as we are authorised, from these premisses, to form a conclusion, his premature death before he ascended the throne ought not to excite any great national regret." But his memory will live forever, in connection with the stinging epigram, in which the Tory feeling toward the Hanoverian race is so wonderfully depicted:—