what he would, from
that black morning to eternity, he went a haunted man--a scared,
sleepless, horror-stricken wretch. That livid face with goggling eyes,
stuck to him like a shadow; he always felt its presence, and sometimes,
also, could perceive it as if bodily peeping over his shoulder, next his
cheek; it dogged him by day, and was his incubus by night; and often he
would start and wrestle, for the desperate grasp of the dying appeared
to be clutching at his throat: so, in his ghostly fears, and bloody
conscience, he had girded round his neck a piece of thin sheet-iron in
his cravat, which he wore continually as armour against those clammy
fingers: no wonder that he held his head so stiff.

O Gold--accursed Mammon! is this the state of those who love thee
deepest? is this their joy, who desire thee with all their heart and
soul--who serve thee with all their might--who toil for thee--plot for
thee--live for thee--dare for thee--die for thee? Hast thou no better
bliss to give thy martyrs--no choicer comfort for thy most consistent
worshippers, no fairer fate for those, whose waking thoughts, and
dreaming hopes, and intricate schemes, and desperate deeds, were only
aimed at gold, more gold? God of this world, if such be thy rewards, let
me ever escape them! idol of the knave, false deity of the fool, if this
be thy blessing on thy votaries--come, curse me, Mammon, curse thou me!

For, "The love of money is the root of all evil." It groweth up a
little plant of coveting; presently the leaves get rank, the branches
spread, and feed on petty thefts; then in their early season come the
blossoms, black designs, plots, involved and undeveloped yet, of foul
conspiracies, extortions on the weak, rich robbings of the wealthy, the
threatened slander, the rewarded lie, malice, perjury, sacrilege; then
speedily cometh on the climax, the consummate flower, dark-red murder:
and the fruit bearing in itself the seeds that never die, is righteous,
wrathful condemnation.

Dyed with all manner of iniquity, tinged with many colours like the
Mohawk in his woods, goeth forth in a morning the covetous soul. His
cheek is white with envy, his brow black with jealous rage, his livid
lips are full of lust, his thievish hands spotted over with the crimson
drops of murder. "The poison of asps is under his lips; and his feet are
swift to shed blood: destruction and misery are in his ways; and there
is no fear of God before his eyes."

O, ye th