Then the cry arose that the churchyards were too full, that there was no longer any room for the dead. "I must find room, or I shall be ruined," exclaimed the sexton; "it cost me all I had in the world to get elected." The grave-digger threw down his spade, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and said, "Our occupation's gone." The cry increased; and then the incessant tolling of the bell ceased; for an order was issued that the dead should no longer rout the dead, or their sleep be broken almost before the features had been effaced by slow decay. Then Death ceased to become his own avenger; for when he found that the secrets of his dark dominions were no more to be laid bare to the open eye of day, he no longer smote those who trod reverentially on the verge of his territories. The streets were no longer darkened with funerals; you no longer saw men running in every direction with coffins on their heads, knocking at doors, and delivering them with no more ceremony or feeling than the postman delivers his letters. The solemn hearse and the dark mourning-coach now moved slowly along, and the dead were borne away to green and peaceful cemeteries, far removed from the dwellings of the living. Nuisances were removed--sewers were cleansed--the abodes of the poor purified, and at last rendered habitable; and then "the plague was stayed." It seemed as if the winds of Heaven, which had been driven away for want of breathing-room, came back again, and flapped their "healing wings" above the homes of mankind; as if they were weary of wandering over the houseless sea, and gladly returned to sweep through the lofty streets and open squares, from which they had been driven by the poison-traps which were set every where to destroy them. The sun again gladdened the day, and the round moon walked up the starry steep of heaven, while the sky bared its blue bosom, and shewed that the silvery clouds still slumbered there as tranquilly as if the Destroying Angel had never thrown his shadow betwixt earth and heaven.