The father of this incomparable youth was a cavalier squire, with something like £500 per annum to nourish his dignity. “Bob” was early entered at the Temple, where he behaved like a Templar; was too idle to study the constitution of England, but very actively worked at the ruin of his own. He thought Fleet-street vulgar, and removed to Scotland-yard, next door to the court, which then rioted at Whitehall. The “beauty” of his neighbour attracted the notice of that other scamp, Charles II.; and as Fielding was too handsome for anything, the King only made him a Justice of the Peace. The women however left him none; and their importunities induced him to abandon justice, and devote himself to wine, love-making, and living upon pensions from female purses. In a succeeding reign he gave up the Church, as he had before surrendered justice; and when James II. was King, Fielding assumed Romanism as a good speculation, and was especially zealous not only in protecting Popish chapels from the populace, but in giving asylum to the prettiest devotees of that faith who flew to his bosom for refuge. He stuck to his profession under William III.; that is, he made none at all; and as he was accounted of no religion, his friends had no difficulty in getting him nominated Major-General. I think this must have been in the Horse Marines. The gallant officer was, at all events, never in fray more serious than with sleepy watchmen and slip-shod waiters, whom he ran through (he was an excellent runner, when peril pursued) with the most astonishing alacrity. He was the handsomest man and the most extravagantly splendid dresser of his day. When he passed down the Mall at the fashionable hour, there was a universal flutter and sensation. “O’Carroll,” he would then say to his servant, “does my sword touch my right heel? Do the ladies ogle me?” “It does, Sir. They do, Sir.” “Then, O’Carroll,” would the beau exclaim aloud, “let them die of love, and be d—d!” “What a perfect gentleman! what a delicious creature!” chorused the ladies. “Ay, ay,” said the beau, “look and die! look and die!” He was not kicked off the public promenade, but he was occasionally so ejected from the public stage. It was the habit or the fashion then for a portion of the audience to stand upon the stage, and the actors played, like mountebanks, in a crowd. It was further the habit of this superlative _beau_ to make remarks aloud upon the ladies in the boxes. The latter,—not the boxes, but the ladies,—were not slow in flinging back retorts; and the players, enraged at being unheeded, would then fairly turn upon Fielding and turn him out, with the ceremony, or want of it, observed in ejecting ill-bred curs.