In the same year, 1751, died another of the children of George and Caroline--Louisa, Queen of Denmark. She had only reached her twenty-seventh year, and had been eight years married. Her mother loved her, and the nation admired her for her grace, amiability, and talents. Her career, in many respects, resembled that of her mother. She was married to a king who kept a mistress in order that the world should think he was independent of all influence on the part of his wife. She was basely treated by this king; but not a word of complaint against him entered into the letters which this spirited and sensible woman addressed to her relations. Indeed, she had said at the time of her marriage that, if she should become unhappy, her family should never know anything about it. She died, in the flower of her age, a terrible death, as Walpole calls it, and after an operation which lasted an hour. The cause of it was the neglect of a slight rupture, occasioned by stooping suddenly when _enceinte_, the injury resulting from which she imprudently and foolishly concealed. This is all the more strange, as her mother, on her death-bed, said to her: ‘Louisa, remember I die by being giddy and obstinate, in having kept my disorder a secret.’ Her farewell letter to her father and family, a most touching address, and the similitude of her fate to that of her mother, sensibly affected the almost dried-up heart of the King. ‘This has been a fatal year to my family,’ groaned the son of Sophia Dorothea. ‘I lost my eldest son, _but I was glad of it_. Then the Prince of Orange died, and left everything in confusion. Poor little Edward has been cut open for an imposthume in his side; and now the Queen of Denmark is gone! I know I did not love my children when they were young; I hated to have them coming into the room; but now I love them as well as most fathers.’