The chief sorrow of George III. was that his eldest sons were wild, disobedient young men.  George, Prince of Wales, especially, was very handsome, and extremely proud of his own beauty.  He was called the First Gentleman in Europe, and set the fashion in every matter of taste; but he spent and wasted money to a shameful amount, and was full of bad habits; besides which, he used to set himself in every way in his power to vex and contradict his father and mother, whom he despised for their plain simple ways and their love of duty.  The next two brothers—­Frederick, Duke of York, and William, Duke of Clarence—­had also very bad habits; but they went astray from carelessness, and did not wilfully oppose their father, like their eldest brother.

William Pitt, son of Lord Chatham, was Prime Minister.  He thought that the Roman Catholics in England ought to have the same rights as the king’s other subjects, and not be hindered from being members of Parliament, judges, or, indeed, from holding any office, and he wanted to bring a bill into Parliament for this purpose.  But the king thought that for him to consent would be contrary to the oath he had sworn when he was crowned, and which had been drawn up when William of Orange came over.  Nothing would make George III. break his word, and he remained firm, though he was so harassed and distressed that he fell ill, and lost the use of his reason for a time.  There were questions whether the regency—­that is, the right to act as king—­ should be given to the son, who, though his heir, was so unlike him, when he recovered; and there was a great day of joy throughout the nation, when he went in state to St. Paul’s Cathedral to return thanks.

In the meantime, terrible troubles were going on in France.  Neither the kings nor nobles had, for ages past, any notion of their proper duties to people under them, but had ground them down so hard that at last they could bear it no longer; and there was a great rising up throughout the country, which is known as the French Revolution.  The king who was then reigning was a good and kind man, Louis XVI., who would gladly have put things in better order; but he was not as wise or firm as he was good, and the people hated him for the evil doings of his forefathers.  So, while he was trying to make up his mind what to do, the power was taken out of his hands, and he, with his wife, sister, and two children, were shut up in prison.  An evil spirit came into the people, and made them believe that the only way to keep themselves free would be to get rid of all who had been great people in the former days.  So they set up a machine for cutting off heads, called the guillotine, and there, day after day, nobles and priests, gentlemen and ladies—­even the king, queen, and princess, were brought and slain.  The two children were not guillotined, but the poor little boy, only nine years old, was worse off than if he had been, for the cruel wretches who kept him called him the wolf-cub, and said he was to be got rid of, and they kept him alone in a dark, dirty room, and used him so ill that he pined to death.  Many French gentry and clergymen fled to England, and there were kindly treated and helped to live; and the king’s brother, now the rightful king himself, found a home there too.