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CHAPTER I.
AUGUSTA, PRINCESS OF WALES.
DEATH OF THE PRINCE OF WALES—HIS CHARACTER—HIS EPITAPH—THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY—BIRTH OF CAROLINE MATILDA—LORD BUTE—MELCOMBE'S DIARY—THE GREAT NO-POPERY CRY—CHARACTER OF GEORGE III.—MAJORITY OF THE PRINCE OF WALES—COURT CABALS—MISS CHUDLEIGH—HORACE, PRINCE OF SCANDALIA.
On a March evening, in 1751, the beau monde of London was gently agitated by the news that Frederick, Prince of Wales, had just expired, at his house in Leicester Fields. He died somewhat suddenly, and in the arms of one Desnoyers, a French dancing master, who, having been called in to soothe the prince's mind by playing the fiddle at his bedside, had the honour of holding him in his arms during the final struggle. Orpheus, we read, could charm savage beasts by the sound of his lyre; but the violin, however eloquently played, had no authority over tyrant Death. The prince had received a blow in the side from a cricket-ball some months previously, while playing at that game on the lawn of Cliefden House. This had formed an internal abscess, which eventually burst, and the discharge suffocated him.[1]
The prince's death created no great sensation. It is notorious that he had long been on bad terms with his royal father; but that is too common a thing in German regnant houses to deserve comment: in such, the rule divide et impera is carried out logically; that is to say, the father tyrannises, and commands his son to join the Opposition, in order, in any event, to keep the power in the family, should the over-taut bow-string snap.
Frederick, Prince of Wales, at an early age was instructed in the noble art of hunting with the dogs and howling with the wolves; and the historical searcher comes across amusing instances of his pseudo liberalism. One of the most remarkable, was his reply to the City addresses on the birth of his eldest son, when he had the audacity to say—doubtless, with his tongue in his cheek—"My son, I hope, may come in time to deserve the gratitude of a free people; and it shall be my constant care to instruct him that true loyalty can only be the result of liberty." I really cannot feel surprised at his father detesting the hypocrite so thoroughly.
The fulness of pride which made George III. declare, in his first speech after ascending the throne, that, "born and educated in this country, I glory in the name of Briton,"[2] had been fostered by his father from a very early age. A curious instance of this will be found in the following extract from a prologue to Cato, which was put in the lad's mouth on January 4, 1749, in a representation of that play by the royal family at Leicester House. After making a tremendous panegyric on liberty, the boy goes on to say—
"Should this superior to my years be thought,
Know—'tis the first great lesson I was taught.