What Caroline said of her consort was true enough. At chapel, the King, when not sleeping, _would_ be talking. Dr. Young thought, by power of his preaching, to keep him awake; but the King, on finding that the new chaplain was not giving him what he loved, ‘a short, good sermon,’ soon began to exhibit signs of somnolency. Young exerted himself in vain; and when his Majesty at length broke forth with a snore, the poet-preacher felt his vanity so wounded that he burst into tears. Where Kings and Queens so behaved, no wonder that young ensigns flirted openly with maids of honour, and that Lady Wortley Montague should have reason to write to the Countess of Bute: ‘I confess I remember to have dressed for St. James’s Chapel with the same thoughts your daughters will have at the opera.’ It is not likely that Archbishop Potter was sent for by Caroline herself in her last illness, for she liked the prelate as little as Whiston himself did. But Potter, the first of scholars, in spite of the sneers of academical Parr, was, although a staunch Whig, and esteemed by Caroline and her consort for his sermon preached before them at their coronation, yet a very high churchman, one who put the throne infinitely below the altar, and thought kings very far indeed below priests. This last opinion, however, was very much modified when the haughty prelate, son of a Wakefield linendraper, had to petition for a favour. His practice, certainly, was not perfect, for he disinherited one son, who married a dowerless maiden out of pure love, and he left his fortune to the other, who was a profligate and squandered it.