FORGOTTEN ROADS 169 



even more than their roads, they, the people, are 

 forgotten — a vanished race. I come down from 

 our hills sometimes as if I were descending from a 

 dream of dead days. In the cellar hole of the San- 

 disfield church, I think, lies buried the grace and 

 the strength and the bitter iron of an old theology, 

 and in the sagging ruins of the splendid Colonial 

 abode beyond this cellar hole move the ghosts of 

 men and women who dared cheerfully to conquer 

 a wilderness, a wilderness that is now driving the 

 last of their descendants down to the plain once 

 more. The old order changeth, indeed; but it is 

 by no means certain that it is the good customs 

 which corrupt the world. 



