But the obliging janitor was convinced, by a single glance at
the cards we presented, that it would not do to refuse us admission.
We found the Noble Duke divested of wearing apparel and enjoying
his morning ablution, which was administered by a valet de chambre,
who stood on a platform above His Excellency, and held him down
with a ten foot pole. The countenance of the great man expressed
composure and serenity. His eyes were closed and his general
appearance and attitude were limp and cadaverous, causing us to
fear, for a moment, that His Mightiness might be dead instead of
sleeping.

Our apprehensions were allayed, however, when the irreverent
attendant punched his Sublime Majesty in the head and chest, and
elicited an impatient, cavernous, responsive "ugh!"

Having feasted our eyes on the unveiled grandeur of the stupendous
Knight, we begged permission of his keeper to get into the Imperial
bed and embrace the gigantic feet. We begged in vain. Let us
then grasp that autocratic right hand, which reminds us so
touchingly of the dear, fat, fried-cake hands Bridget used to
mould for us in our infancy. Our request was declined with
emphasis. May we not breathe an affectionate word into that
dexter ear, which seems placed far down towards his shoulder as
if on purpose to receive our tender message? "He's deaf," said
the heartless man with the pole. Let us at least give him one--
just one--kiss for his mother. "He never had no mother," responded
the inexorable valet, and we turned sadly away from the Kingly
presence of the sweet, sleeping orphan.

As we wended our homeward way we gave ourself up to meditation,