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. Lower the sail--let it flap idly on the wind--helm a-port--and so to smoother waters: return to common life and humbler thoughts.