When hope, love, life itself, are only Dust--spectral memories--dead and cold-- The unfed fire burns bright and lonely, Like that undying lamp of old: And by that drear illumination, Till time its clay-built home has rent, Thought broods on feeling's desolation-- The soul is its own monument. MR GLOWRY Admirable. Let us all be unhappy together. MR HILARY Now, I say again, a catch. THE REVEREND MR LARYNX I am for you. ME HILARY 'Seamen three.' THE REVEREND MR LARYNX Agreed. I'll be Harry Gill, with the voice of three. Begin MR HILARY AND THE REVEREND MR LARYNX Seamen three! I What men be ye? Gotham's three wise men we be. Whither in your bowl so free? To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine; And your ballast is old wine. Who art thou, so fast adrift? I am he they call Old Care. Here on board we will thee lift. No: I may not enter there. Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree, In a bowl Care may not be; In a bowl Care may not be. Hear ye not the waves that roll? No: in charmed bowl we swim. What the charm that floats the bowl? Water may not pass the brim. The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine. And our ballast is old wine; And your ballast is old wine. This catch was so well executed by the spirit and science of Mr Hilary, and the deep tri-une voice of the reverend gentleman, that the whole party, in spite of themselves, caught the contagion, and joined in chorus at the conclusion, each raising a bumper to his lips: The bowl goes trim: the moon doth shine: And our ballast is old wine. Mr Cypress, having his ballast on board, stepped, the same evening, into his bowl, or travelling chariot, and departed to rake seas and rivers, lakes and canals, for the moon of ideal beauty. * * * * * CHAPTER XII It was the custom of the Honourable Mr Listless, on adjourning from the bottle to the ladies, to retire for a few moments to make a second toilette, that he might present himself in becoming taste. Fatout, attending as usual, appeared with a countenance of great dismay, and informed his master that he had just ascertained that the abbey was haunted. Mrs Hilary's _gentlewoman_, for whom Fatout had lately conceived a _tendresse_, had been, as she expressed it, 'fritted out of her seventeen senses' the preceding night, as she was retiring to her bedchamber, by a ghastly figure which she had met stalking along one of the galleries, wrapped in a white shroud, with a bloody turban on its head. She had fainted away with fear; and, when she recovered, she found herself in the dark, and the figure was gone. '_Sacre--cochon--bleu_!' exclaimed Fatout, giving very deliberate emphasis to every portion of his terrible oath--'I vould not meet de _revenant_, de ghost--_non_--not for all de _bowl-de-ponch_ in de vorld.' 'Fatout,' said the Honourable Mr Listless, 'did I ever see a ghost?'