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- So making no doubt we were off for a ramble, perhaps to Apsley House,
in the Park, to get a sly peep at the old Duke before he retired for
the night, for Harry had told me the Duke always went to bed early, I
sprang up to follow him; but what was my disappointment and surprise,
when he only led me into the passage, toward a staircase lighted by
three marble Graces, unitedly holding a broad candelabra, like an elk’s
antlers, over the landing.
We rambled up the long, winding slope of those aristocratic stairs,
every step of which, covered with Turkey rugs, looked gorgeous as the
hammer-cloth of the Lord Mayor’s coach; and Harry hied straight to a
rosewood door, which, on magical hinges, sprang softly open to his
touch.
As we entered the room, methought I was slowly sinking in some
reluctant, sedgy sea; so thick and elastic the Persian carpeting,
mimicking parterres of tulips, and roses, and jonquils, like a bower in
Babylon.
Long lounges lay carelessly disposed, whose fine damask was interwoven,
like the Gobelin tapestry, with pictorial tales of tilt and tourney.
And oriental ottomans, whose cunning warp and woof were wrought into
plaited serpents, undulating beneath beds of leaves, from which, here
and there, they flashed out sudden splendors of green scales and gold.
In the broad bay windows, as the hollows of King Charles’ oaks, were
Laocoon-like chairs, in the antique taste, draped with heavy fringes of
bullion and silk.
The walls, covered with a sort of tartan-French paper, variegated with
bars of velvet, were hung round with mythological oil-paintings,
suspended by tasseled cords of twisted silver and blue.
They were such pictures as the high-priests, for a bribe, showed to
Alexander in the innermost shrine of the white temple in the Libyan
oasis: such pictures as the pontiff of the sun strove to hide from
Cortez, when, sword in hand, he burst open the sanctorum of the
pyramid-fane at Cholula: such pictures as you may still see, perhaps,
in the central alcove of the excavated mansion of Pansa, in Pompeii—in
that part of it called by Varro _the hollow of the house:_ such
pictures as Martial and Seutonius mention as being found in the private
cabinet of the Emperor Tiberius: such pictures as are delineated on the
bronze medals, to this day dug up on the ancient island of Capreas:
such pictures as you might have beheld in an arched recess, leading
from the left hand of the secret side-gallery of the temple of
Aphrodite in Corinth.
In the principal pier was a marble bracket, sculptured in the semblance
of a dragon’s crest, and supporting a bust, most wonderful to behold.
It was that of a bald-headed old man, with a mysteriously-wicked
expression, and imposing silence by one thin finger over his lips. His
marble mouth seemed tremulous with secrets.
“Sit down, Wellingborough,” said Harry; “don’t be frightened, we are at
home.—Ring the bell, will you? But stop;”— and advancing to the
mysterious bust, he whispered something in its ear.
“He’s a knowing mute, Wellingborough,” said he; “who stays in this one
place all the time, while he is yet running of errands. But mind you
don’t breathe any secrets in his ear.”
In obedience to a summons so singularly conveyed, to my amazement a
servant almost instantly appeared, standing transfixed in the attitude
of a bow.
“Cigars,” said Harry. When they came, he drew up a small table into the
middle of the room, and lighting his cigar, bade me follow his example,
and make myself happy.
Almost transported with such princely quarters, so undreamed of before,
while leading my dog’s life in the filthy forecastle of the Highlander,
I twirled round a chair, and seated myself opposite my friend.
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