The fact is that George II. had the misfortune to keep in his inmost circle a vigilant and deadly enemy. John Lord Hervey, the Sporus of Pope's blighting satire, akin in mind and probably in blood to Horace Walpole, was always with him; noting down, with spruce rancour, a venomous pen, and some dramatic power, the random outbreaks of his master. It is not wise to attribute literal exactitude or even general veracity to such chronicles; the man who can commit so gross a breach of confidence is little worthy of trust. That Hervey in the very heart of the King's family should have sate down with a pen dipped in vitriol to portray its most intimate aspects is perhaps our gain but his disgrace. He was a viper warmed in the bosom of the Court, and stung it to the full extent of his opportunity and powers. A court is considered fair game by such reptiles. But it is hard to see why princes, who after all are human beings, should not be allowed to some extent the same sanctity of family life which humbler human beings claim and maintain. Hervey was the intimate associate of the King, the confidential friend of the Queen, the lover of one of their daughters, he was the tame cat of the family circle. He thought it seemly to narrate their secrets in so brutal a fashion that some more decent member of his family tore out and destroyed the coarsest and bitterest passages. What remains is coarse and bitter enough. It shows the King and Queen in a most unfavourable light. But that aspect is fascinating compared to that in which he presents himself. The story of royalty should not be a Court Circular; but neither should it be a lampoon, written by a trusted friend. The only excuse for him is that being devoted to the Queen, who in her way merited his devotion, he detested the King whom he deemed unworthy of her. But that does not help the reader who looks to him for facts. The George II. we know is the George II. of Hervey, and Hervey's Journal proves the writer to be unworthy of implicit credence. Chesterfield also drew a character of the King. But when we discount Chesterfield's studied epigrams, poised with the malignant nicety of one who hated his subject, there is not much left for discredit.