DOUBTS.


AND so, this crock of gold--gained through extortion, by the
frauds of every day, the meannesses of every hour--this concrete
oppression to the hireling in his wages--this mass of petty pilferings
from poverty--this continuous obstruction to the charities of
wealth--this cockatrice's egg--this offspring of iniquity--had already
been baptized in blood before poor Acton found it, and slain its earthly
victim ere it wrecked his faith; already had it been perfected by crime,
and destroyed the murderer's soul, before it had endangered the life of
slandered innocence.

Is there yet more blessing in the crock? more fearful interest still, to
carry on its story to an end? Must another sacrifice bleed before the
shrine of Mammon, and another head lie crushed beneath the heel of that
monster--his disciple?

Come on with me, and see the end; push further still, there is a
labyrinth ahead to attract and to excite; from mind to mind crackles the
electric spark: and when the heart thrillingly conceives, its
children-thoughts are as arrows from the hand of the giant, flying
through that mental world--the hearts of other men. Fervent still from
its hot internal source, this fountain gushes up; no sluggish
Lethe-stream is here, dull, forgetful, and forgotten; but liker to the
burning waves of Phlegethon, mingling at times (though its fire is still
unquenched), with the pastoral rills of Tempe, and the River from the
Mount of God.