incidents of his life. His biographers say that when he
commenced housekeeping in that splendid new palace of his, the Prince of
Wales had some windy projects of encouraging literature, science, and the
arts; of having assemblies of literary characters; and societies for the
encouragement of geography, astronomy, and botany. Astronomy, geography,
and botany! Fiddlesticks! French ballet-dancers, French cooks,
horse-jockeys, buffoons, procurers, tailors, boxers, fencing-masters,
china, jewel, and gimcrack merchants--these were his real companions. At
first he made a pretence of having Burke and Pitt and Sheridan for his
friends. But how could such men be serious before such an empty scapegrace
as this lad? Fox might talk dice with him, and Sheridan wine; but what
else had these men of genius in common with their tawdry young host of
Carlton House? That ribble the leader of such men as Fox and Burke! That
man's opinions about the constitution, the India Bill, justice to the
Catholics--about any question graver than the button for a waistcoat or the
sauce for a partridge--worth anything! The friendship between the prince
and the Whig chiefs was impossible. They were hypocrites in pretending to
respect him, and if he broke the hollow compact between them, who shall
blame him? His natural companions were dandies and parasites. He could
talk to a tailor or a cook; but, as the equal of great statesmen, to set
up a creature, lazy, weak, indolent, besotted, of monstrous vanity, and
levity incurable--it is absurd. They thought to use him, and did for
awhile; but they must have known how timid he was; how entirely heartless
and treacherous, and have expected his desertion. His next set of friends
were mere table companions, of whom he grew tired too; then we hear of him
with a very few select toadies, mere boys from school or the Guards, whose
sprightliness tickled the fancy of the worn-out voluptuary. What matters
what friends he had? He dropped all his friends; he never could have real
friends. An heir to the throne has flatterers, adventurers who hang about
him, ambitious men who use him; but friendship is denied him.

And women, I suppose, are as false and selfish in their dealings with such
a character as men. Shall we take the Leporello part, flourish a catalogue
of the conquests of this royal Don Juan, and tell the names of the
favourites to whom, one after the other, George Prince flung his
pocket-handkerchief? What purpose w