Then, as if he had forgotten something, he hurried to the door and
opened it.
"Care, thou skeleton, go hence, and thou, Poverty, go also, and see
thou return not before cock-crow," said he, imperatively.
"You have many servants," said Trove.
"An' how may one have a castle without servants? Forsooth, boy,
horses an' hounds, an' lords an' ladies have to be attended to.
But the retinoo is that run down ye'd think me home a hospital.
Wit is a creeping dotard, and Happiness he is in poor health an'
can barely drag himself to me table, an' Hope is a tippler, an'
Right Hand is getting the palsy. Alack! me best servant left me a
long time ago."
"And who was he?"
"Youth! lovely, beautiful Youth! but let us be happy. I would not
have him back--foolish, inconstant Youth! dreaming dreams an'
seeing visions. God love ye, boy! what is thy dream?"
This rallying style of talk, in which the clock tinker indulged so
freely, afforded his young friend no little amusement. His tongue
had long obeyed the lilt of classic diction; his thought came easy
in Elizabethan phrase. The slight Celtic brogue served to enhance
the piquancy of his talk. Moreover he was really a man of wit and
imagination.
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