“This world is a well-cover'd table, Where guests are promiscuously set; We all eat as long as we're able, And scramble for what we can get—”
answered his Cousin; “in fact, it is like every thing, and at the same time like nothing—
“The world is all nonsense and noise, Fantoccini, or Ombres Chinoises, Mere pantomime mummery Puppet-show flummery; A magical lantern, confounding the sight; Like players or puppets, we move On the wires of ambition and love; Poets write wittily, Maidens look prettily, ?Till death drops the curtain —all's over—good night!”
By this time they were at Long's, where, upon inquiry, all trace of Sparkle had been lost for two days. All was mystery and surprise, not so much that he should be absent, as that his servant could give no account of him, which was rather extraordinary. Tom ascertained, however, that no suspicion appeared to have been excited as to Miss Mortimer, and, with commendable discretion, avoided expressing a word which could create such an idea, merely observing, that most likely he had taken an unexpected trip into the country, and would be heard of before the day was out.
On leaving Long's however they were met again by Mortimer in breathless anxiety, evidently labouring under some new calamity.
“I am glad I have found you,” said he, addressing himself to Dashall; “for I am left in this d———d wilderness of a place without a friend to speak to.”
“How,” inquired Ton, “what the d———l is the matter with you?”
“Why, you must know that Merry well is gone—”
“Gone—where to?”
“To—to—zounds, I've forgot the name of the people; but two genteel looking fellows just now very genteely told him he was wanted, and must come.”