than the sanctuary of "the dead," as we call them ;
the place where, amid the hush of passionless exis-
tence, the wide leisure of uncounted time, the shades
of once familiar presences keep their " tongueless
vigil." They fly not at the " dully sound " of human
footsteps ; they ask no sympathy for regret which
dare not tell the secret of its sorrow ; but, with the
gentle gait of old-world courtesy, they move aside,
and when you depart resume occupation of ground
which, for the sake of despairing wishes and
memories of an uneffaced past, they may not quit.
After life's fitful fever these waifs of a vanished
world sleep not well ; here are some consumed with
covetousness, who are learning not to resent the
word "mine" applied by the living owner of hall
and garden, field and store ; some that prey on
withered bliss — the "bitter sweet of days that
were " — this, the miser whose buried treasure lies
undiscovered here, and who has nothing in God's
bank in the other world ; this, the author of the
evil book ; and this loveless, unlovely pair, the
ruined and ruiner, yoked for aye; a motley band,
forsooth, with " Satan's sergeants " keeping
guard !

It is ever the indirect that is most eloquent.
Someone says : Hence these tokens of a dead
past open out vistas for one's imagination and drop
hints of romance that would make thrilling read-
ing in many volumes, but which shall never reach
Mudie's.
