He was much given to gallantry—­not so much, as it seemed, for wantonness, but from sheer love of mirth and chivalry.  For a time, with his chosen friends, such as Fox and Sheridan, he ventured into reckless intrigues that recalled the amours of his predecessor, Charles II.  He had by no means the wit and courage of Charles; and, indeed, the house of Hanover lacked the outward show of chivalry which made the Stuarts shine with external splendor.  But he was good-looking and stalwart, and when he had half a dozen robust comrades by his side he could assume a very manly appearance.  Such was George IV. in his regency and in his prime.  He made that period famous for its card-playing, its deep drinking, and for the dissolute conduct of its courtiers and noblemen no less than for the gallantry of its soldiers and its momentous victories on sea and land.  It came, however, to be seen that his true achievements were in reality only escapades, that his wit was only folly, and his so-called “sensibility” was but sham.  He invented buckles, striped waistcoats, and flamboyant collars, but he knew nothing of the principles of kingship or the laws by which a state is governed.

The fact that he had promiscuous affairs with women appealed at first to the popular sense of the romantic.  It was not long, however, before these episodes were trampled down into the mire of vulgar scandal.

One of the first of them began when he sent a letter, signed “Florizel,” to a young actress, “Perdita” Robinson.  Mrs. Robinson, whose maiden name was Mary Darby, and who was the original of famous portraits by Gainsborough and Reynolds, was a woman of beauty, talent, and temperament.  George, wishing in every way to be “romantic,” insisted upon clandestine meetings on the Thames at Kew, with all the stage trappings of the popular novels—­cloaks, veils, faces hidden, and armed watchers to warn her of approaching danger.  Poor Perdita took this nonsense so seriously that she gave up her natural vocation for the stage, and forsook her husband, believing that the prince would never weary of her.

He did weary of her very soon, and, with the brutality of a man of such a type, turned her away with the promise of some money; after which he cut her in the Park and refused to speak to her again.  As for the money, he may have meant to pay it, but Perdita had a long struggle before she succeeded in getting it.  It may be assumed that the prince had to borrow it and that this obligation formed part of the debts which Parliament paid for him.

It is not necessary to number the other women whose heads he turned.  They are too many for remembrance here, and they have no special significance, save one who, as is generally believed, became his wife so far as the church could make her so.  An act of 1772 had made it illegal for any member of the English royal family to marry without the permission of the king.  A marriage contracted without the king’s consent might be lawful in the eyes of the church, but the children born of it could not inherit any claim to the throne.