asmodic efforts at command,
the words "Osnabrueck! Osnabrueck!" At Osnabrueck lived his brother the
Prince-bishop. The attendants dared not disobey George, even at that
moment, and the carriage drove at its fullest speed on towards
Osnabrueck. No swiftness of wheels, however, no flying chariot, could
have reached the house of the Prince-bishop in time for the King. When
the royal carriages clattered into the court-yard of the {266}
Prince-bishop's palace the reign of the first George was over--the old
King lay dead in his seat. Lord Townshend and the Duchess of Kendal
were following in different carriages on the road; an express was sent
back to tell them the grim news. Lord Townshend came on to Osnabrueck,
and finding that the King was dead, had nothing to do but to return
home at once. The Duchess of Kendal is stated to have shown all the
signs of grief proper to be expected from a favorite. She tore her
hair--at least she pulled and clutched at it--and she beat her ample
bosom, and professed the uttermost horror at the thought of having to
endure life without the companionship of her lord and master. It is
satisfactory, however, to know that she did not die of grief. She
lived for some sixteen years, and made her home for the most part at
Kendal House, near Twickenham.

[Sidenote: 1727--The raven]

Even such a man as George the First may become invested by death with a
certain dignity and something of a romantic interest. Legends are
afloat concerning the King's later days which would not be altogether
unworthy the closing hours of a great Roman emperor. George had his
melting moments, it would seem, and not long before his death, being in
a pathetic mood, he gave the Duchess of Kendal a pledge that if he
should die before her, and it were possible for departed souls to
return to earth and impress the living with a knowledge of their
presence, he, the faithful and aged lover, would come back from the
grave to his mistress. When the Duchess of Kendal returned to her home
near Twickenham she was in constant expectation of a visit in some form
from her lost adorer. One day while the windows of her house were
open, a large black raven, or bird of some kind--raven would seem to be
the more becoming and appropriate form for such a visitor--flew into
her presence from the outer air. The lamenting lady assumed at once
that in this shape the soul of King George had come back to earth. She
cherished and pett