In spite of Sir Robert Walpole's persuasions to the contrary, the king went back to Hanover a week after his son's marriage. Previous to his departure from England he appointed Queen Caroline regent, much to the dissatisfaction of the Prince of Wales; but he went further, for he sent word to the prince that wherever the queen resided there would always be apartments for himself and the princess. In other words, Frederick was to be treated as a sort of a prisoner without the privilege of a separate court of his own. This was most humiliating, and a condition of affairs that naturally led to disobedience and deceit; for when Queen Caroline removed from one residence to another her son would pretend to be making preparations to follow, and then contrive some excuse for not doing so. Once he pleaded illness of the princess, although she was perfectly well, then the queen feigned anxiety and went to visit the make-believe invalid, who received her in a darkened room, and said she was suffering from measles, although the doctors could not be induced to back her up in her lie. The queen went to live at Kensington, as she always did during her husband's absence, and every time she held a council meeting there Frederick contrived to arrive just as the business was concluded. This he did on purpose to annoy his mother, and to show his displeasure at her being regent, when he thought that position ought to have been assigned to him.

It would have been a great deal better for all the members of the royal family if the king had been more contented to remain in England; but he spent months at a time in Hanover, and was only prevented at last from indulging in this amusement by the breaking out of the seven years' war. Everybody expressed his opinion very freely on the subject of King George's love for Germany, and made that the ostensible reason for complaint, no matter what it was really. One day a poor, lean, lame, blind, old horse was turned loose into the streets with a shabby, broken saddle on his back, and a paper fastened to his head, on which was this inscription: "Let nobody stop me: I am the King's Hanover Equipage going to fetch his Majesty to England."

At the Royal Exchange a placard was posted up with this notice: "It is reported that his Hanover Majesty designs to visit his British dominions for three months in the Spring." On the gate of St. James's Palace appeared this advertisement: "Lost or strayed out of this house, a man who has left a wife and six children on the parish; whoever will give any tidings of him to the church wardens of St. James's Parish, so as he maybe got again, shall receive four shillings and sixpence reward.

"N.B. This reward will not be increased, nobody judging him to deserve a crown." There were many more such notices; but we have quoted enough to give an idea of what complaining there was because King George loved Germany, and did not take the pains to conceal it.

During the king's absence Queen Caroline governed, with Walpole for adviser and assistant; but every measure they decided upon was submitted to the Cabinet Council, who were required to sanction and sign each document before it was carried into effect. This was wise management, because the responsibility was thus shared by a number of people, though Walpole acted quite independently. In 1736 the queen had a great deal of trouble as regent, for there were corn-riots in the West, labor-riots in London, because there were so many Irishmen there who were willing to work at cheaper rates than the English, and smugglers on the coasts who were in league with the peasantry. This class of people gave special uneasiness, because whenever they were opposed they cursed the queen, as well as "the foreign prince," as they called the king, and cheered for James III. The disturbance became so great that the guard around Kensington Palace had to be doubled, the person of the queen not being considered safe. A large part of the trouble was due to intoxication, which increased depravity among the lower orders to an alarming degree.

So a bill was introduced before parliament to prohibit the sale of gin. It did little good, however; for the horrid stuff was sold under such names as Sangree, Tom Row, Cuckold's Comfort, Parliament Gin, Make Shift, The Last Shift, Ladies' Delight, King Theodore, Cholic and Gripe Waters. Gin-shops disappeared and gave place to chemists, who had whole rows of bottles labelled, "Take two or three spoonfuls of this four or five times a day, or as often as the fit takes you." When these people were arrested and brought before the courts, they said that apothecary-shops were more in demand than ever before, because the "late act of parliament had caused people to suffer so much from cholic that they had constantly to buy medicine." There were those who informed against others for selling gin, either privately or under a false name, merely for the gratification of some spite, or from a feeling of envy; but when they fell into the hands of the mob they paid dearly for it, for they were beaten, rolled in the dirt, held under a pump, or ducked in the horse-pond or in the Thames. There were disturbances in Scotland, too, the most formidable of which was known as the Porteous riot, because a captain of that name was one of the principal victims of it. Sir Walter Scott has given an excellent and most interesting account of this riot in one of the most popular of his novels. He says that Captain John Porteous was the son of a citizen of Edinburgh, who did all in his power to bring him up to an honest trade; but the boy was so wild and dissipated that at last he was sent to join the army in Holland, with the hope that the discipline would improve his morals. Some years later he returned to his native city, where he was employed by the magistrates to drill the City Guard, because he was supposed to possess military skill. It was not long before he was made captain, and his very name became a terror to all disturbers of the public peace, because he was so harsh and severe. He commanded a corps of a hundred and twenty soldiers, whose duty it was to preserve order, and prevent street robberies and mobs; yet whenever there was a public holiday there was sure to be a skirmish between the City Guard and the rabble of Edinburgh, who really hated them.

Among the smugglers that abounded all along the coast of Scotland was one Andrew Wilson, a man possessed of so much strength, courage, and cunning, that he did not hesitate to conduct the most desperate enterprises. He frequently managed to escape the king's officers; but they watched him so closely that they were able to seize all the wares he smuggled into the country and completely ruined him. He, like many others, could not see the justice of taxation, and looked upon himself as a man deprived of his honest dues, and resolved to get back what he could, in one way or another, from the government. So, hearing that a tax collector had come to the town, with a considerable sum of public money, Wilson decided to seize him and take from him just the amount of which he had been deprived. He associated himself for this purpose with a young man named Robertson and two others, who, after carefully watching the movements of the collector, broke into the house where he lodged, and entered his apartment. As soon as the collector beheld three armed men,—for Robertson, the fourth, kept watch at the house-door,—he suspected that his life was in danger, and jumped out of the window in his night-shirt. The plunderers then helped themselves to two hundred pounds; but no sooner had they made their escape than one of the accomplices gave the alarm; the military were called in, Wilson and Robertson were caught with the money concealed about their persons; both were tried and condemned to death. As public sympathy was always with smugglers, and they were generally regarded by the country people along the coast as brave, worthy traders, this sentence was considered too severe. On the other hand, the act had been so audacious that it was thought proper to make an example of the culprits. When it seemed certain that sentence of death was really to be executed, files and other implements were conveyed secretly to the prisoners to enable them to escape. Thus provided, they cut through a bar of one of the prison windows, and might have got off, had it not been for Wilson's obstinacy. Robertson was a young, slender man, and knew that he could pass through the opening, when he proposed to enlarge it from the outside, to enable Wilson, who was very fat, to pass also. Wilson insisted on going first; but all the pushing and squeezing in the world availed nothing, and the poor man stuck fast half way, without being able to advance or recede. In this plight he was discovered by the jailer, who took the necessary precautions to prevent the recurrence of such an attempt. Robertson did not once reproach his companion; but Wilson was greatly distressed, because he knew that but for him Robertson would not have got into trouble at all, and that he had injured him a second time by not permitting him to pass through the window first, when he might have escaped. So his whole thought was turned towards devising some means for the rescue of the young man, for he cared nothing about his own fate.

Next to the Edinburgh city jail was a church, to which criminals under sentence of death were led by a strong guard on the Sunday previous to their execution. Wilson and Robertson, each between two soldiers of the City Guard, sat in the pew set apart for persons in their unfortunate situation on a certain Sunday, while the officiating clergyman preached an affecting sermon, part of which was ad#-dressed to the prisoners. Robertson wept, but Wilson's countenance bore a look of fixed determination, and his thoughts seemed far away. The congregation glanced towards the two men, but their suspicion was not excited by anything they saw; on the contrary, compassion was aroused, and after the benediction had been pronounced, many lingered to take a last look, as they supposed, at the unfortunate criminals. Suddenly Wilson seized two of the soldiers, one with each hand, called to his companion, "Run, Geordie, run!" threw himself on the third, and fastened his teeth in the collar of his coat. For an instant Robertson was so taken aback that he did not stir, but the cry of "Run, run!" that arose from every part of the church recalled him to himself; so he shook off the grasp of the fourth soldier, jumped over the pew-railing, and disappeared through the church door, the crowd making way for him, and covering his retreat. From that time the practice of taking culprits to church has been discontinued.

Now Wilson was looked upon as a hero, and it was whispered that the mob of Edinburgh, who always favored such offenders, would help him to escape also. Murmurs to this effect reached the ears of the magistrates, who ordered John Porteous to be at the place of execution with the City Guard at the time appointed for Wilson to expiate his crime. This defence not being deemed sufficient, a regular infantry regiment besides was drawn up on the principal streets of the city, to intimidate the people in case they purposed any interference with the officers of justice.

John Porteous became most indignant at this arrangement, for he was jealous of the sound of any drums besides his own within the city limits. He could not vent his ill-humor on the magistrates, but resolved to do so on poor Wilson, whom he ordered to be manacled as soon as he was delivered over to his charge by the prison keeper. This was done to prevent any possibility of escape, but the handcuffs were too small for the wrists of so powerful a man as Wilson, so the captain forced them on with his own hands until they clasped, and tortured the criminal dreadfully. Wilson remonstrated against such barbarity, and declared that the pain distracted his thoughts from their proper course at such a solemn moment.

"It signifies little," replied Captain Porteous; "your pain will soon be at an end."

"Your cruelty is great," answered the sufferer. "You know not how soon you yourself may have occasion to ask the mercy which you are now refusing to a fellow-creature. May God forgive you."

As these words were repeated among the crowd, compassion for Wilson was increased with a proportionate degree of indignation against Porteous, who was much disliked by the common people. When the criminal arrived at the Grass-market, the place of execution, the multitude attempted no violence, and the sentence of the law was fulfilled in due form. No sooner was life extinct than by a sudden impulse, angry murmurs filled the air, which increased to whoops, howls, and yells, while the mob pressed forward and threw stones at Porteous and his men. One young man with a cap slouched over his face jumped upon the scaffold and cut down the body dangling there, while others approached to carry it off. This excited the fury of Captain Porteous, who snatched a musket from one of his soldiers, gave the order to fire, and set the example by shooting a man dead on the spot. Six or seven others were slain, and a great many were wounded. This was an unjustifiable act of violence on the part of a man whose duty it was to preserve peace and order, and he recognized it as such when his rage had subsided.

On his return to the guard-house Porteous dismissed his men, and went to make his report of the day's proceedings to the magistrates, glossing over his own part in them as much as possible. The public indignation was great, and before it had time to cool Captain Porteous was brought up for trial before the High Court of Justiciary. There was so much conflicting evidence that the jury had a long and tedious task; but at the end their verdict was such that the captain was condemned to be hanged on September 8, and all his movable property confiscated to the crown, according to the Scottish law in cases of wilful murder.

On the day appointed for the execution, Grass-market was crowded almost to suffocation, and every window of the surrounding tenement-houses was filled with spectators. Few words were spoken, but there was an expression in men's faces that showed determination as they watched for the approach of the criminal with a feeling of triumphant revenge. Had the captain appeared upon the scaffold some sympathy might have been awakened in his behalf, but the longer the delay the greater became the animosity against him. Among the magistrates and the better class of the Scotch people Porteous had been a favorite officer, for he had proved himself a reliable man in cases of emergency, and it was argued that on the occasion of the Wilson execution his conduct might have been caused by an imprudent excess of zeal. So a petition, signed by a vast number of the nobility and gentry, was sent to Queen Caroline, asking her to exercise the mercy of the crown in the captain's behalf.

Just at the last moment, when all preparations for the execution had been completed, a reprieve, granting a respite of six weeks, arrived with the queen regent's signature. The news, which the magistrates almost feared to communicate, was at length announced, and spread like lightning among the crowd.

There were groans of indignation and disappointed revenge as the citizens began to disperse and return to their respective homes; but some of them gathered in knots, and several individuals were seen to pass from group to group talking excitedly about the injustice of Wilson's death, and how much more he was entitled to mercy than this man, who had just been granted a reprieve. An Edinburgh mob, when thoroughly excited, had always been considered one' of the fiercest that could be found in Europe, and it was not easy to suppress them. They took their departure from Grass-market, but they were to be heard from soon again; for that very night they assembled to the number of four or five thousand, seized and closed the city gates, took possession of all the arms belonging to the City Guard, set fire to the prison gate, and released every prisoner confined within, excepting Captain Porteous. Him they dragged to the place of execution, and with all the solemnity of a legal proceeding hanged him, saying that they wanted to show the world that no authority should have power to dispense with the laws of Scotland, while many talked in the coarsest and most opprobrious terms of the queen and her reprieve. As soon as this horrible murder was committed the mob was appeased and dispersed without further violence to any one.

Queen Caroline was excessively indignant, particularly with Captain Moyle, commander of the troops, who had refused to use his authority in suppressing the riot. She declared that he deserved to be shot by order of court-martial quite as much as the rioters deserved to be hanged. Even Sir Robert Walpole, who tried to soften her majesty's temper, acknowledged that Moyle had acted like a fool, knave, and coward.

When the Edinburgh jail was thrown open by the mob on the night of the Porteous murder, there was among the prisoners a lovely, fair-haired young woman, named Effie Deans, who had been arrested on a charge of having killed her infant. This circumstance would not be in place here, excepting as it led to an act of sympathy and generosity on the part of Queen Caroline which shows a pleasing trait in her character.

Effie Deans had a sister, ten years older than herself, named Jeanie, who was so much distressed at the punishment of one in whose innocence she had the utmost confidence, that she was determined to get a pardon for her if possible. For that purpose she applied to Mr. Butler, a young minister, to whom she was engaged to be married. He, too, believed in Effie's innocence, and resolved to aid his lady-love in her worthy endeavor to save her sister. After a few moments of reflection he remembered that his father and grandfather had rendered important service to the ancestors of the Duke of Argyle, whose influence with Queen Caroline was very great; he, therefore, gave Jeanie a paper, which had descended as an heirloom in his family, stating that in consideration of the aid rendered to the Argyle family, all the descendants thereof were earnestly enjoined to grant any reasonable demand that might ever be made by the Butlers.

Armed with this document, Jeanie sought the presence of the duke, who, after inquiring into her sister's trouble and carefully examining the paper she gave him, told her to come to him two days later, and he would do his best to serve her, adding: "But God has the hearts of kings in his own hand."

Instead of waiting for Jeanie Deans the Duke of Argyle sent one of his servants the next day in a coach to fetch her, and after a long drive she found herself on a turnpike road leading to London. The duke's servant got down from the carriage, and opened the door just as his master appeared. "You have been punctual, I see, Jeanie," said the duke as he placed her in a large chariot drawn by four horses, and seated himself by her side, giving his footman an order to drive forward rapidly. It is not our province to give all the details of this interesting adventure, which anybody may read in Sir Walter Scott's "Heart of Midlothian" for himself; we will mention only that part of it which refers to the queen.

When Jeanie walked into the gardens of Kensington Palace with the Duke of Argyle, she saw two ladies strolling about. They were her majesty and an attendant; but the young girl did not suspect the rank of the person whom the duke approached and conversed with for several minutes, while she stood at some distance away. Neither could she hear what was said, but presently she was told by a signal from the duke to advance.

Queen Caroline smiled at the shy, awkward manner of the quiet, demure little Scotchwoman as she came towards her, and in a low, sweet voice, with a broad northern ac- cent, asked "her leddyship to have pity on a poor misguided young creature."

"Stand up, young woman," said the queen, in a kind tone, "and tell me what sort of barbarous folk your country people are, where child-murder is become so common as to require the restraint of laws like yours?"

"If your leddyship pleases," answered Jeanie, "there are mony places besides Scotland where mothers are unkind to their ain flesh and blood."

And so the conversation went on until Queen Caroline was in possession of the whole of Effie's sad story, and then she said: "I fear you have had a long journey to little purpose; since, if the king were to pardon your sister, in all probability it would do her little good, for I suppose your people of Edinburgh would hang her out of spite." The queen spoke thus because she was still very angry at the contempt with which her reprieve had been treated in the case of John Porteous. But Jeanie replied: "I am confident that baith town and country wad rejoice to see his majesty taking compassion on a poor unfriended creature."

"His majesty has not found it so of late," said the queen; "but, hark you, young woman, had you any friends engaged in the Porteous mob?"

"No, madam," replied Jeanie, pleased that she could say so with truth; "I would hae gaen to the end of the earth to save the life of John Porteous, or any other unhappy man in his condition; but he is dead and gane to his place, and they that have slain him must answer, for their ain act. But my sister—my puir sister Effie, still lives, though her days and hours are numbered! She still lives, and a word of the king's mouth might restore her to a broken-hearted auld man, that never, in his daily and nightly exercise, forgot to pray that his majesty might

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be blessed with a long and a prosperous reign. Oh, madam, if ever ye kend what it was to sorrow for and with a suffering creature, whose mind is sae tossed that she can be neither ca'd fit to live or die, have some compassion on our misery! Save an honest house from dishonor, and an unhappy girl, not eighteen years of age, from an early and dreadful death! Alas! it is not when we sleep soft and wake merrily ourselves that we think on other people's sufferings. Our hearts are waxed light within us then, and we are for righting our ain wrangs and fighting our ain battles. But when the hour of trouble comes to the mind or to the body—and seldom may it visit your leddyship—and when the hour of death comes, that comes to high and low—lang and late may it be yours—oh, my leddy, then it isna what we hae dune for oursells, but what we hae dune for others, that we think on maist pleasantly. And the thoughts that ye hae intervened to spare the puir thing's life, will be sweeter in that hour, come when it may, than if a word of your mouth could hang the the Porteous mob at the tail of ae tow." The tears flowed down Jeanie's cheeks as she pleaded for her sister's life, and all present were touched at her simple, solemn manner. "This is eloquence," said her majesty to the Duke of Argyle.. "Young woman," she continued, addressing herself to Jeanie, "I cannot grant a pardon to your sister; but you shall not want my warm intercession with his majesty. Take this housewife case," she continued, putting a small embroidered needle-case into Jeanie's hands; "do not open it now, but at your leisure you will find something in it which will remind you that you have had an interview with Queen Caroline." Jeanie had begun to suspect to whom she was speaking; but as soon as her suspicion was confirmed she dropped upon her knees speechless with gratitude. After a few courteous remarks addressed to the duke, Queen Caroline withdrew.

It is only necessary for us to add that upon opening the needle-case at the duke's request, as they were driving back home, Jeanie Deans found, besides the usual assortment of silks, needles, scissors, etc., a bank-bill for fifty pounds; and her sister's pardon was sent to her before many days had elapsed. The story, so beautifully related by Scott, is founded on fact; but the name of the young girl who sought the interview with the Duke of Argyle in behalf of her sister is a fictitious one.

In October King George wrote the queen to remove from Kensington to St. James's, saying that the season being far advanced, and the house in which she was living reputed to be damp, he thought it would be better for her health, besides she would be nearer the ministers. She did not obey, because she knew that her husband did not mean what he wrote, but preferred to have her live in retirement, as she was doing, until his return.

Frederick, however, removed to London, but left his suite in the country, so that he could not be accused of setting up a rival court, and of thus acting in direct disobedience to his father's commands. He charmed the public by sending five hundred pounds to the Lord Mayor for the purpose of releasing poor freemen of the city. To be sure he was deeply involved in debt as usual, and his creditors would have preferred to get the money themselves; nevertheless, his act was a liberal one, and formed a strong contrast to his father, who spent large sums in Germany, much to the disgust of his English subjects.

On the eighth of December the king left Hanover to return to England, and arrived at Helvoetsluys, the seaport, on the eleventh of the same month. His daughter, Anne, was dangerously ill at the Hague; but he did not take time even to inquire how she was, so impatient did he feel to get back to his Caroline. Everybody in London was on the lookout for their sovereign, for it was known that he had reached the-Holland coast, and as the weather was fine it was expected that he would be among them in a few days. But the wind changed, a violent storm ensued, and such a terrific hurricane blew from the west that fears were entertained for the king's safety. People began to bet on the time of his sailing, and the probabilities of his having gone to the bottom of the ocean. Day succeeded day; still no news; the excitement increased. Walpole began to discuss the situation of the royal family, and to consider what sort of a ruler the Prince of Wales would make,—how he would treat his mother, sisters, and brother, who would rule him, and whom he would bully. Lord Hervey had a private conversation with the queen on the subject, and assured her that she would be able to govern her son as easily as she had her husband; but she could not be induced to believe that, called Frederick a fool, and wondered at his popularity, which seemed perfectly incomprehensible to her. Hour after hour reports came of losses at sea; the Harwich guns had been heard at a distance, and they were regarded as signals of distress from the royal fleet. The queen would not believe that the king was drowned, though Frederick had informed her that little doubt remained, and began to assume lordly airs as he grew more and more convinced of his own advancement. But all his high hopes were dashed to the ground when a courier arrived, having risked his life to bring the news to England that King George had not sailed when he expected, and was still at Helvoetsluys awaiting favorable winds and weather.

At last favorable weather did come, and the royal fleet set sail, but it was overtaken by a storm far more severe than the one that had detained it before. This time Queen Caroline was excessively anxious, for she saw there was real cause for alarm. The ships that had comprised the royal fleet were dashed ashore at various points along the coast, some of them totally wrecked, and it was reported that the last seen of the vessel which bore the king was when she was tacking, and it was hoped that his majesty might have got safely back to Helvoetsluys, though there were strong doubts.

Christmas-day came around, and still no king. St. James's palace presented a most gloomy appearance. The queen and her attendants played cards in the evening, and every one tried to appear cheerful and hopeful, but their thoughts were far away, and all were prepared for the worst. The next day, being Sunday, Caroline attended chapel, resolved to keep up her courage until she was positive that her husband had perished. In the midst of the service a letter was handed to her from the king, which she opened at once. Considering the anxiety she had endured she is to be excused for that, for she afterwards declared that her heart had been heavier that day than ever before. His majesty wrote that he had set sail, but the fleet had been scattered, and his ship driven back to Holland after knocking about for nearly twenty hours. He added that the commander, Sir Charles Wager, was entirely to blame, for he had hurried him aboard with the assurance that wind and tide were both favorable.

This statement was entirely false, for it was George himself who had insisted on setting sail, and he had even declared that if Sir Charles refused he would go over in a packet-boat, adding, "Be the weather what it may, I am not afraid."

"I am," was the seaman's reply. "But I want to see a storm," said the king, "and would sooner be twelve hours in one than be shut up for twenty-four hours more at this place."

"Twelve hours in a storm!" cried

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Sir Charles, "four hours would do your business for you." The commander would not sail until the wind was fair, and when he did so, he said, "Although your majesty can compel me to go, I can make you come back again." And he was right, for the storm that overtook them was awful, and their return to the Dutch coast was attended by a great deal of danger. On landing Sir Charles said, "Sir, you wished to see a storm; how does your majesty like it?" "So well," replied the king, "that I never wish to see another."

A.D. 1737. Queen Caroline wrote a letter to her husband congratulating him on his safety, and he sent one in return filled with terms of affection and praise. He passed five long, tedious weeks at Helvoetsluys, and did not arrive in England until the fifteenth of January. Contrary to his usual habit, he came from Germany in a splendid humor, smiled on every one, complimented his wife, and declared her to be the most superior woman in the world. One thing made him very angry, and that was when any of the ministers inquired after his health. He really was not well, for his experience at sea had upset him dreadfully; but any man who presumed to refer to his illness was pronounced a "puppy," and treated with supreme contempt.

Soon after his return to England the king was much annoyed about the income of the Prince of Wales, but the manner in which it was settled by parliament gave both his majesty and Queen Caroline perfect satisfaction. This means, of course, that the prince did not get what he asked for, because, if he had, their majesties would have been very much displeased. Queen Caroline was so anxious for her son William to succeed to the throne that she would have given anything if Frederick could have been put out of the way; but she was not to be gratified, and even if she had been, the little daughter born to the Princess of Wales on the thirty-first of July, would have stood in William's path.

The child was named Augusta, and the Prince of Wales had behaved so badly towards his parents about the time when she appeared in the world that he was requested to leave St. James's Palace. He removed with his wife and baby to Kew, and from that time he and his mother never spoke to each other.

In September the Prince and Princess of Wales held a levee at Carlton House, when the lord mayor and other officials of the city offered congratulations on the birth of the Princess Augusta, and many friends gathered about the prince, anxious to show him that they considered him oppressed, and wished to prove themselves his partisans. He invariably discussed his father's treatment of him, but always blamed the queen for it. Probably this was because she was unwomanly, and unlike a mother enough to call him by the harshest and most disgraceful names whenever she had occasion to speak of him at all, and these were no doubt repeated to him.

If the prince's levees were crowded so were the king's, for his birthday drawing-room, on the thirtieth of October, was the most splendidly attended of any that had been celebrated since his accession. This was very gratifying to King George, and put him in a most amiable mood, but it was not long to continue; for the queen, whose health had been poor for many months, though she had endeavored to conceal it, now grew visibly worse. Yet such was her love for the king, and so anxious was she to gratify every desire of his, that even when suffering from an attack of gout she would often plunge her whole leg in cold water, in order that she might be able to attend him in a walk of three or four miles. But such treatment only aggravated the disease, and in the month of August Queen Caroline was so ill that a report was circulated of her death, and all the London shop windows displayed mourning materials in place of the gay ones that had decorated them before. The mourning was premature, however, for the royal patient rallied, and was able to walk with the king in the gardens of Hampton Court several times.

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However, in November of the same year she had a more serious attack, which finally proved fatal. Queen Caroline was a woman of such energy and will that she would not succumb until the end. On the morning of the ninth she got up as usual, but was obliged to return to bed for several hours. There was to be a drawing-room that day, and as the king always said that there was neither grace, gayety, nor dignity on such occasions when the queen was absent, she exerted herself to attend, and he was inconsiderate enough to permit her to do so. Before long Lord Hervey noticed how much she was suffering, and urged her to retire; she refused at first, but finding herself growing weaker she sent for the king, who was in another part of the room discussing the merits of the last burlesque performance. At length he answered the summons, and, without any pretense of sympathy, led the queen from the room, no doubt with a feeling of great annoyance at having his entertainment interrupted. This was her last appearance in public.

She was put to bed, and Princess Caroline, who was herself in bad health, watched beside her mother until long past midnight. Then the king relieved her; that is, robed in a comfortable morning gown, he lay on the outside of her majesty's bed, and scarcely left her room enough to turn over. Besides, he was not quite comfortable, and so grumbled at being kept awake, and did more harm than good to the sufferer.

On the' following day the queen was bled, but continued to grow worse. That did not prevent his majesty from giving directions about the lace ruffles that were to be sewed in his coat-sleeves in time for the reception of the foreign ministers, before whom he was always desirous of making a display.

The Princesses Caroline and Amelia watched by their dying mother with all the devotion of dutiful, affectionate daughters, but they were not to be rewarded by seeing her recover; for on the thirteenth the physicians announced that their royal patient was beyond hope of recovery. She took a solemn, tender farewell of all her children, except ing the Prince of Wales, and Anne, who was in Holland, and whose presence in London was not desired by any one.

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Queen Caroline loved her other children as much as she disliked the two older ones; and her last words to the Duke of Cumberland were touching and sensible. After giving him a great deal of counsel, she concluded by telling him, "That should his brother. Frederick ever be king, he should never seek to mortify him, but simply try to manifest a superiority over him only by good actions and merit." She placed her two youngest daughters, Louisa and Mary, under the care of the gentle Caroline, and then took leave of the king, who was overcome with grief.

The queen expressed no desire to see Walpole, but he sought an interview, and then she requested him to take care of the king. All this time no member of the royal family had suggested that a priest should be sent for; but for the gratification of public-opinion Walpole recommended it, though he was little better than a heathen, joked about bishops, and laughed at High Church and Low. He addressed himself to the Princess Amelia on the subject thus: "It will be quite as well that the farce should be played. The Archbishop of Canterbury will perform it decently; and the princess might bid him be as short as she liked. It would do the queen neither harm nor good; and it would satisfy all the fools who called them atheists if they affected to be as great fools as they who called them so."

So Archbishop Potter was summoned, and attended the dying queen, morning and evening, but the sacrament was not administered. It was supposed that this ceremony could not be performed because of her majesty's irreconcilable hatred of her eldest son, but this could not be known positively, because all her interviews with the archbishop were private. However, everybody felt great curiosity to know whether the solemn rite had been administered, but when at his last visit the courtiers met the priest and asked eagerly, "My lord, has the queen received?" The only reply they got was, "Gentlemen, her majesty is in a most heavenly frame of mind." What that signified they were left to guess, and we may do the same.

Meanwhile the king passed his time praising the virtues of his wife, which he recounted over and over again, yet whenever he entered her room he was sure to say something rough or unkind. Once when her eyes had a vacant look peculiar to invalids, he requested her to "stop staring in that disagreeable way, which made her look just like a calf with its throat cut."

On the morning of the twentieth the queen turned to her physician, and asked, "How long can this last?"

"It will not be long," was the reply, "before your majesty will be relieved from this suffering."

"The sooner the better," said the queen. Then she began a solemn, earnest, eloquent prayer, that excited the admiration of every one present, for it was so beautiful and so touching. She requested to be raised up in bed, and asked all present to offer up a prayer for her. As she grew weaker she ordered water to be sprinkled over her, so that she might revive and be able to listen to the appeal to Heaven in her behalf. "Louder!" she murmured, while one or the other of her family prayed, "louder, that I may hear." One of the princesses read the Lord's Prayer, in which the dying queen took part; at its conclusion she looked fixedly at those who stood weeping around her, then with a long-drawn, feeble "so—!" expired, as the clock on the chimney-piece struck eleven.

The king kissed the face and hands of his dead wife, and then went to his own apartment; but he was so superstitious and so afraid of ghosts that he would not allow himself to be left alone for a moment. He kept constantly talking about his "Caroline," and related over and over again the different circumstances of her life. Then he would weep; but in the midst of his tears he burst into a roar of laughter at Horace Walpole, the brother of Sir Robert, because he presented such a grotesque appearance when he cried.

George II. was not a man to grieve very long nor very deeply, but he never ceased to respect the memory of his wife, and declared that he had never seen a woman whom he thought "good enough to buckle her shoes." Queen Caroline was mourned by a great number of people, as she well deserved to be, but by none more than the king, to whom she had been one of the truest, fondest wives a prince was ever blessed with. She loved him and was faithful to him to the last. Queen Caroline was a clever, learned, good-tempered woman. Her predominant passion was pride, the dearest pleasure of her soul was power; but to her credit it must be recorded that she never abused the power she had over the king's mind by employing it for the promotion of her own friends or favorites. Carlyle says of her: "There is something stoically tragic in the history of Caroline with her flighty vaporing, little king; seldom had foolish husband so wise a wife."

Queen Caroline was buried at Westminster Abbey, and the Princess Amelia acted as chief mourner. The anthem sung on that occasion was "The Ways of Zion do Mourn," set to music by Handel.

Of course the ill-feeling between the king and the Prince of Wales continued, and whatever courtiers visited at Carlton House dared not show their faces at St. James's, and the king's jealousy of his son was probably further increased when George Augustus, who afterwards reigned as George III., was born. This event occurred on the 4th of June, 1738; and after that the party opposed to the king gathered more and more around the prince, while the rival courts kept the town amused.

[A.D. 1743.] For twelve years Sir Robert Walpole had kept England at peace, but the era of war began soon after Queen Caroline's death. George II. espoused the cause of Marie Theresa when the French tried to deprive her of her inheritance. During that campaign the Earl of Stair, who commanded the British troops, allowed himself to be surrounded by the enemy near the village of Dettingen, and but for the bravery of George II., who was present, would have lost the battle. His majesty rode a vicious horse, which during the conflict carried him out of the way. At length with the assistance of a soldier the animal was stopped, and the king dismounted, saying in his broken English, "Aha! now dat I am upon my own legs, I am sure dat I sal not run away!" The Duke of Cumberland had accompanied his father to Flanders, and when they got back to England they met with a most enthusiastic reception. The Prince of Wales stood at the head of the stairs of St. James's Palace with his two sisters to receive the king, who passed him by as he would a dog. The next year the Duke of Cumberland met with a signal defeat at Fontenoy, and in 1748 peace was restored to England once more. The Prince of Wales continued to oppose his father all the time, but that did not prevent his son, Prince George, from having the Order of the Garter conferred on him. On that occasion the little knight was carried to the king's door in his father's arms. The Duke of Dorset received him, and he made a speech that had been taught him by his tutor.

A.D. 1749. The dissension between George II. and his eldest son was put an end to at last by the death of the latter, which occurred as a result of great imprudence in 1751. The king was at Kensington when the news reached him looking at a game of cards. "Dead, is he? Why, they told me he was better," and that is all the regret, if it may be so called, that the royal father felt at the loss of his first-born. But he sent kind messages to the widow, who behaved with a great deal of sense and courage.

She was then the mother of eight children, and her husband's death was a severe blow. She sat beside his body for four hours before she would believe that he was dead; then, after taking a brief repose, she went to his writing-desk and burned all his private papers.

A.D. 1751. Frederick had had his friends, and his death was lamented by many, though his own family were not of the number. A preacher said of him, "He had no great parts, but he had great virtues,—indeed, they degenerated into vices. He was very generous; but I hear his generosity ruined a great many people; and, then, his condescension was such that he kept very bad company." It is rather hard to decide whether this was intended for praise or censure; but a Jacobite epitaph that appeared at the time is decidedly more conclusive. It was to this effect:—

"Here lies Fred,

Who was alive and is dead

Had it been his father,

I had much rather.

Had it been his brother,

Still better than another.

Had it been his sister,

No one could have missed her.

Had it been the whole generation,

Still better for the nation:

But since't is only Fred,

Who was alive and is dead,

There is no more to be said."

One of George II.'s earliest acts after the death of the Prince of Wales was to appoint his wife regent, in case of his own death before the next heir should be of age. This gave great offence to William, Duke of Cumberland; but the king did not trouble himself about such a trifle, and devoted the rest of his life to gayety and politics.

The young Pretender is said to have visited England more than once for the purpose of finding out what the populace thought of him. One day the king asked a certain lord where Charles Edward was. "Upon my word, sire, I don't exactly know," was the reply. "I suppose he is in Italy; but I'll consult my last despatches."

"Poh, poh! man," said the king, "don't trouble your head about despatches; I'll tell you where he is: he is now at No.—, in the Strand, and last night he was at Lady————'s party. What shall we do with him?" The lord proposed calling a council to decide, but the king said, "No, no; we can manage the business without a council. Let him stay where he is at present; and when the poor man has amused himself with looking about London, he will go home again."

George II. had no taste for art, science, nor literature, and never pretended to have. "I hate bainting and boetry too," he used to say, "neider de one nor de oder ever did any good!" But he loved the theatre, opera, and masquerades. Once when he was in Hanover he was visited by the Princess of Orange and Maria of Hesse-Cassel with their husbands. At that time his court was very brilliant, and he gave a magnificent mask ball in honor of his guests in the theatre of Herrenhausen. The stage was splendidly decorated, and the garden surrounding the theatre was illuminated with colored lanterns. All the ladies and gentlemen appeared in white satin dominos, and every detail of the ball was conducted with unusual magnificence. A grand supper was served on three long tables, and the dancing was kept up until broad daylight.

A few days later there was an assembly at the opera-house, when the king appeared in a richly embroidered Turkish costume, with a striped silk turban, in which was an agraffe of rare and costly diamonds, Dapper little George danced and capered about with his red face, white eyebrows, and goggle eyes, in a manner that would have been more becoming to a man of twenty than one of sixty.

A.D. 1760. The latter years of King George's life were passed as regularly as clockwork. At night he played cards in the apartments of his daughters, Amelia and Caroline, with some favored officers of his own household, and two or three of the late queen's ladies. Every Saturday he made a pleasure trip to Richmond, where, with a party of courtiers, he dined. They went in coaches, drawn by six horses, in the middle of the day, with the horse-guards kicking up the dust before them, dined, walked an hour in the garden, and returned in the same dusty procession. This was considered enjoyment.

When the young and beautiful Duchess of Hamilton was presented to King George, just after her marriage, he conversed with her for a long time, and was much pleased with her naturalness and vivacity. He asked her what striking public sights she had witnessed, whereupon she thoughtlessly replied: "Oh! I have seen so much, there is only one sight in the world which I wish to behold, and that is a coronation." The old king gently took her hand in his, and with a sigh, exclaimed, "I apprehend you have not long to wait; you will soon have your desire."

On the twenty-fifth of October, he arose about his usual hour, and seemed well; he called for his chocolate, and inquired the direction of the wind, as if anxious for the arrival of his foreign mails. He then opened the window, and said he would walk into the garden; but he stopped, and with a deep sigh, fell to the ground, saying, faintly, "Call Amelia," and then expired. He was raised and laid upon the bed. It was found, on examination, that he had died of rupture of the heart.

The funeral took place the following month, at night. The king's chamber was hung with purple velvet, and lit up with silver lamps; the coffin was placed on a dais under a canopy of purple velvet, surrounded by silver candelabra, on high stands.

The procession passed through a double line of foot-guards, every seventh man bearing a torch. The horse-guards formed an outside line, and all their officers Wore crape sashes and carried drawn sabres. As the coffin was borne along, minute-guns were fired, bells tolled, and a funeral march was played on fifes, with muffled drums for accompaniment. The procession was met at the entrance to the Abbey by the dean and chapter in rich robes, all the choir and almsmen bearing torches. Arriving at the chapel of Henry VIL, the bishop read the prayers for the dead, which were succeeded by an anthem. The Duke of Cumberland, as chief mourner, stood at the entrance of the vault, in which his father's remains were placed beside those of his mother.

He looked very tall in his black cloak, with a train live yards long, which must have felt very heavy during the two hours he was kept standing. But he bore the ordeal firmly, in spite of his lame leg, and the thought that he must soon follow his father. He had had a paralytic stroke, from which he had not entirely recovered. He lived five years longer.