s delights; clung round the linden-trees of the great
Herrenhausen avenue, and at first would not quit the place. Schulenberg,
in fact, could not come on account of her debts; but finding the Maypole
would not come, the Elephant packed up her trunk and slipped out of
Hanover unwieldy as she was. On this the Maypole straightway put herself
in motion, and followed her beloved George Louis. One seems to be speaking
of Captain Macheath, and Polly, and Lucy. The king we had selected; the
courtiers who came in his train; the English nobles who came to welcome
him, and on many of whom the shrewd old cynic turned his back--I protest it
is a wonderful satirical picture. I am a citizen waiting at Greenwich
pier, say, and crying hurrah for King George; and yet I can scarcely keep
my countenance, and help laughing at the enormous absurdity of this
advent!

Here we are, all on our knees. Here is the Archbishop of Canterbury
prostrating himself to the head of his Church, with Kielmansegge and
Schulenberg with their raddled cheeks grinning behind the Defender of the
Faith. Here is my Lord Duke of Marlborough kneeling too, the greatest
warrior of all times; he who betrayed King William--betrayed King James
II--betrayed Queen Anne--betrayed England to the French, the Elector to the
Pretender, the Pretender to the Elector; and here are my Lords Oxford and
Bolingbroke, the latter of whom has just tripped up the heels of the
former; and if a month's more time had been allowed him, would have had
King James at Westminster. The great Whig gentlemen made their bows and
congees with proper decorum and ceremony; but yonder keen old schemer
knows the value of their loyalty. "Loyalty," he must think, "as applied to
me--it is absurd! There are fifty nearer heirs to the throne than I am. I
am but an accident, and you fine Whig gentlemen take me for your own sake,
not for mine. You Tories hate me; you archbishop, smirking on your knees,
and prating about Heaven, you know I don't care a fig for your Thirty-nine
Articles, and can't understand a word of your stupid sermons. You, my
Lords Bolingbroke and Oxford--you know you were conspiring against me a
month ago; and you, my Lord Duke of Marlborough--you would sell me or any
man else, if you found your advantage in it. Come, my good Melusina, come,
my honest Sophia, let us go into my private room, and have some oysters
and some Rhine wine, and some pipes afterwards: let us make the best of
our situation