In the revolutionary war Duke George fought like a hero. At home he afforded refuge to bold but honest writers driven from more mighty states. He beautified his city, improved the country; and, without being of great mental cultivation himself, he loved to collect around him scholars, philosophers, artists, authors, gentlemen. With these he lived on the most familiar terms, and when I say that Schiller and John Paul Richter were of the number, I afford some idea of the society which Duke George cared chiefly to cultivate. He buried his own mother in the common churchyard, because she was worthy, he said, of lying among her own subjects. The majority of these were country folk, but George esteemed the country folk, and at rustic festivals he was not unwilling to share a jug of beer with any of them. Perhaps the rustics loved him more truly than the sages, to whom he proved, occasionally, something wearisome. But these were often hard to please. All, however, felt a honest grief when, on the Christmas night of 1803, Duke George died, after a brief illness, caused, it is said, by a neglected cold, and by rage at an urgent demand from the Kaiser of 60,000 florins, fine-money for knightly orders ducally declined. The Duke left a young family, Adelaide, Ida, and his son and successor, Bernard, then only three years of age. The mother of these fatherless children took upon herself the office of guardian, with that of Regent of the duchy. The duties of both were performed with rare judgment and firmness, during a time of much trouble and peril, especially when the French armies were overrunning and devastating Germany. On the young ladies, gently and wisely reared in this little court, Queen Charlotte had begun to look with the foresight of a mother who had elderly and wayward sons to marry. When the death of the Princess Charlotte of Wales threatened to interrupt the direct succession of the crown, the unmatched brothers of the Regent thought of taking unto themselves wives. Cumberland had married according to his, but to no other person’s, liking, hardly even that of his wife. The Dukes of Kent and Cambridge made better choice, and there then remained but the sailor-prince to be converted into a Benedick. The Queen selected his bride for him, and he approved or acquiesced in the selection. He might, as far as age goes, have been her father, but that was of small account; and when Adelaide of Saxe-Meinengen was spoken of, men conversant with contemporary history knew her to be the good daughter of an accomplished and an exemplary mother.