THE DUKE AND DUCHESS.I was just going to sleep when the pale moonlight revealed an Owl sheltering with one wing an Owlet of rather striking appearance, while with the other he draped himself as would an operatic hero with his toga. I soon overheard them talking about the moon, the weather, &c., or rather singing sentiment to a very lame tune.“Poor pale moon, if one only believed lovers, its light was made for them!”I always shrank from intruding myself upon the hospitality of others, so I whispered to a passing Bat, “My dear, would you be so good as to tell your masters a centenarian Rook seeks shelter for the night.”“Who are you addressing?” replied the Bat; “I am neither nurse nor lackey. I am in the service of the Duchess, and have the honour of being her first maid-in-waiting. But who are you, Mrs. Rook of a hundred summers? Where do you hail from? How shall I announce you? What is your title?”“My titles to consideration are my age and need of rest.”“What a silly old crone,” said the stupid creature as she left me. “Nobles are never tired. Weariness is no title, it is the common attribute of the vulgar!”Soon I came across the third maid-in-waiting, who proved herself two degrees less impertinent. “Do you know,” she said, “the first maid has just been scolded on your account? The Duchess was just singing a nocturnal duet with my Lord, when she remarked, ‘How dare you? I am invisible to the poor.’ Besides, she only entertains titled persons, and it seems you have no title.”“What do you say? have I not eyes to see that your Grand Dukeand Duchess are simply Owl and Owlet, on whom those airs sit badly?”A NOCTURNAL DUET.“Hush!” whispered the Bat, who was rather talkative. “Speak lower. Were it known that I listened to you, I would be drawn away and perhaps eaten. Since leaving the place of their humble birth they only dream of grandeur, and hope one day to become real aristocratsin the midst of these old tokens of nobility. Bah! the cowl does not make the monk, any more than the castle does the prince. Fly over there, my old friend, to the right, and you will find a better shelter in the ruins of the castle.”“Show me them; lead me to the souvenirs of departed greatness, out of sight of this sickly, spurious, howling waste of plaster and paint, sham, and shoddy. Thank you, my dear, your mistress was only natural when she was rude.”Very little remained of the old castle, yet I would have given fifty restored ones for a single wall of the old pile.Is there anything more touching in the world than ruins which bear witness, so eloquently, to the greatness of the past?How can we hesitate between old and new? The great present is but the mimicry of the greater past.
I was just going to sleep when the pale moonlight revealed an Owl sheltering with one wing an Owlet of rather striking appearance, while with the other he draped himself as would an operatic hero with his toga. I soon overheard them talking about the moon, the weather, &c., or rather singing sentiment to a very lame tune.
“Poor pale moon, if one only believed lovers, its light was made for them!”
I always shrank from intruding myself upon the hospitality of others, so I whispered to a passing Bat, “My dear, would you be so good as to tell your masters a centenarian Rook seeks shelter for the night.”
“Who are you addressing?” replied the Bat; “I am neither nurse nor lackey. I am in the service of the Duchess, and have the honour of being her first maid-in-waiting. But who are you, Mrs. Rook of a hundred summers? Where do you hail from? How shall I announce you? What is your title?”
“My titles to consideration are my age and need of rest.”
“What a silly old crone,” said the stupid creature as she left me. “Nobles are never tired. Weariness is no title, it is the common attribute of the vulgar!”
Soon I came across the third maid-in-waiting, who proved herself two degrees less impertinent. “Do you know,” she said, “the first maid has just been scolded on your account? The Duchess was just singing a nocturnal duet with my Lord, when she remarked, ‘How dare you? I am invisible to the poor.’ Besides, she only entertains titled persons, and it seems you have no title.”
“What do you say? have I not eyes to see that your Grand Dukeand Duchess are simply Owl and Owlet, on whom those airs sit badly?”
A NOCTURNAL DUET.
“Hush!” whispered the Bat, who was rather talkative. “Speak lower. Were it known that I listened to you, I would be drawn away and perhaps eaten. Since leaving the place of their humble birth they only dream of grandeur, and hope one day to become real aristocratsin the midst of these old tokens of nobility. Bah! the cowl does not make the monk, any more than the castle does the prince. Fly over there, my old friend, to the right, and you will find a better shelter in the ruins of the castle.”
“Show me them; lead me to the souvenirs of departed greatness, out of sight of this sickly, spurious, howling waste of plaster and paint, sham, and shoddy. Thank you, my dear, your mistress was only natural when she was rude.”
Very little remained of the old castle, yet I would have given fifty restored ones for a single wall of the old pile.
Is there anything more touching in the world than ruins which bear witness, so eloquently, to the greatness of the past?
How can we hesitate between old and new? The great present is but the mimicry of the greater past.