His vein of familiar humour flowed at all times, and his facetiousness was sometimes indulged at the cost of his royalty. In those unhappy differences between him and his parliament, one day mounting his horse, which, though usually sober and quiet, began to bound and prance,—“Sirrah!” exclaimed the king, who seemed to fancy that his favourite prerogative was somewhat resisted on this occasion, “if you be not quiet, I’ll send you to the five hundred kings in the lower house: they’ll quickly tame you.” When one of the Lumleys was pushing on his lineal ascent beyond the patience of the hearers, the king, to cut short the tedious descendant of the Lumleys, cried out, “Stop mon! thou needst no more: now I learn that Adam’s surname was Lumley!” When Colonel Gray, a military adventurer of that day, just returned from Germany, seemed vain of his accoutrements, on which he had spent his all,—the king, staring at this buckled, belted, sworded, and pistolled, but ruined, martinet, observed, that “this town was so well fortified, that, were it victualled, it might be impregnable.”
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EVIDENCES OF HIS SAGACITY IN THE DISCOVERY OF TRUTH.
Possessing the talent of eloquence, the quickness of wit, and the diversified knowledge which produced his “Table-talk,” we find also many evidences of his sagacity in the discovery of truth, with that patient zeal so honourable to a monarch. When the shipwrights, jealous of Pett, our great naval architect, formed a party against him, the king would judge with his own eyes. Having examined the materials depreciated by Pett’s accusers, he declared that “the cross-grain was in the men, not in the timber.” The king, on historical evidence,