one word for another. "None have understood it, not even those who
experience the like. It is a chillness, a want of earnestness, a
feeling as if what should be my heart were a thing of vapor, a
haunting perception of unreality! Thus seeming to possess all that
other men have, all that men aim at, I have really possessed
nothing, neither joy nor griefs. All things, all persons,--as was
truly said to me at this table long and long ago,--have been like
shadows flickering on the wall. It was so with my wife and
children, with those who seemed my friends: it is so with
yourselves, whom I see now before one. Neither have I myself any
real existence, but am a shadow like the rest."

"And how is it with your views of a future life?" inquired the
speculative clergyman.

"Worse than with you," said the old man, in a hollow and feeble
tone; "for I cannot conceive it earnestly enough to feel either hope
or fear. Mine,--mine is the wretchedness! This cold heart,--this
unreal life! Ah! it grows colder still."

It so chanced that at this juncture the decayed ligaments of the
skeleton gave way, and the dry hones fell together in a heap, thus
causing the dusty wreath of cypress to drop upon the table. The
attention of the company being thus diverted for a single instant
from Gervayse Hastings, they perceived, on turning again towards
him, that the old man had undergone a change. His shadow had ceased
to flicker on the wall.


"Well, Rosina, what is your criticism?" asked Roderick, as he rolled