The Duke of Newcastle had no pride, though infinite self-love: jealousy was the great source of all his faults. He always caressed his enemies, to list them against his friends; there was no service he would not do for either, till either was above being served by him: then he would suspect they did not love him enough; for the moment they had every reason to love him, he took every method to obtain their hate, by exerting all his power for their ruin. There was no expense to which he was not addicted, but generosity. His houses, gardens, table, and equipage, swallowed immense treasures: the sums he owed were only exceeded by those he wasted. He loved business immoderately, yet was only always doing it, never did it. His speeches in Council and Parliament were flowing and copious of words, but empty and unmeaning: his professions extravagant, for he would profess intentions of doing more service to many men, than he even did hurt to others. Always inquisitive to know what was said of him, he wasted in curiosity the time in which he might have earned praise. He aimed at everything; endeavoured nothing. Fear,[137] a ridiculous fear, was predominant in him; he would venture the overthrow of the Government, and hazard his life and fortunes rather than dare to open a letter that might discover a plot. He was a Secretary of State without intelligence, a Duke without money, a man of infinite intrigue, without secrecy or policy, and a Minister despised and hated by his master, by all parties and Ministers, without being turned out by any!