‘After breakfast the King generally rides out, attended by his equerries; three of the princesses, namely, Augusta, Sophia, and Amelia, are usually of the party. Instead of only walking his horse, his Majesty now generally proceeds at a good round trot. When the weather is unfavourable, the King retires to his favourite sitting-room, and sends for Generals Fitzroy or Manners, to play at chess with him. His Majesty, who knows the game well, is highly pleased when he beats the former, that gentleman being an excellent player. The King dines regularly at two o’clock; the Queen and princesses at four. His Majesty visits and takes a glass of wine and water with them at five. After this period, public business is frequently transacted by the King in his own study, where he is attended by his private secretary, Colonel Taylor. The evening is, as usual, passed at cards in the King’s drawing-room, where three tables are set out. To these parties many of the principal nobility residing in the neighbourhood are invited. When the castle clock strikes ten the visitors retire. The supper is set out, but that is merely a matter of form, and of which none of the family partake. These illustrious personages retire to rest for the night at eleven o’clock. The journal of one day is the history of a whole year.’ The history is not a lively one, perhaps, but it shows agreeably the domestic simplicity of the court. He who was at the head of the latter did not want for a certain religious heroism under affliction. On his growing blindness being compassionately alluded to by some one in his hearing the King remarked: ‘I am quite resigned, for what have we in this world to do but to suffer and perform the will of the Almighty!’ He was resigned, however, partly because he was not yet deprived of hope. In 1809, the jubilee year of his reign, he was unable to attend the grand _fête_ given by Queen Charlotte at Frogmore in honour of the event; and though he rode out, his horse was now led by a servant. On foot, he felt his way along the terrace by the help of a stick. Stricken with such an infliction as rapidly advancing blindness, his predilection for the ‘Total Eclipse’ of Handel was, at least, singular. It affected him to tears, and the Queen could not listen to the performance of this composition without being similarly affected. And yet the King himself seemed mournfully attached to both the music and the words. One morning, we are told, the Queen, or the Prince of Wales--for each has been mentioned--but probably the former, on entering the King’s apartment, found him pathetically reciting the well-known lines from Milton-- Oh dark! dark! dark! amid the blaze of noon Irrevocably dark! Total eclipse Without all hope of day! Oh first created beam, and thou great word, Let there be light, and light was over all; Why am I thus deprived thy prime decree!