with entire self-devotion, thenceforward
until her life's end.

When George I made his first visit to Hanover, his son was appointed
regent during the royal absence. But this honour was never again conferred
on the Prince of Wales; he and his father fell out presently. On the
occasion of the christening of his second son, a royal row took place, and
the prince, shaking his fist in the Duke of Newcastle's face, called him a
rogue, and provoked his august father. He and his wife were turned out of
St. James's, and their princely children taken from them, by order of the
royal head of the family. Father and mother wept piteously at parting from
their little ones. The young ones sent some cherries, with their love, to
papa and mamma; the parents watered the fruit with tears. They had no
tears thirty-five years afterwards, when Prince Frederick died--their
eldest son, their heir, their enemy.

The king called his daughter-in-law "_cette diablesse madame la
princesse_". The frequenters of the latter's Court were forbidden to
appear at the king's: their royal highnesses going to Bath, we read how
the courtiers followed them thither, and paid that homage in Somersetshire
which was forbidden in London. That phrase of "_cette diablesse madame la
princesse_" explains one cause of the wrath of her royal papa. She was a
very clever woman: she had a keen sense of humour: she had a dreadful
tongue: she turned into ridicule the antiquated sultan and his hideous
harem. She wrote savage letters about him home to members of her family.
So, driven out from the royal presence, the prince and princess set up for
themselves in Leicester Fields, "where," says Walpole, "the most promising
of the young gentlemen of the next party, and the prettiest and liveliest
of the young ladies, formed the new Court." Besides Leicester House, they
had their lodge at Richmond, frequented by some of the pleasantest company
of those days. There were the Herveys, and Chesterfield, and little Mr.
Pope from Twickenham, and with him, sometimes, the savage Dean of St.
Patrick's, and quite a bevy of young ladies, whose pretty faces smile on
us out of history. There was Lepell, famous in ballad song; and the saucy,
charming Mary Bellenden, who would have none of the Prince of Wales's fine
compliments, who folded her arms across her breast, and bade H.R.H. keep
off; and knocked his purse of guineas into his face, and told him she was
tired of seeing him count them. He