CHAPTER XXXI.

MAMMON, AND CONTENTMENT.

Ay, safe enough: and the murderer went to bed. To bed? No.

He tumbled about the clothes, to make it seem that he had lain there: but he dared neither lie down, nor shut his eyes. Then, the darkness terrified him: the outdoor darkness he could have borne, and Mrs. Quarles's chamber always had a night-lamp burning: but the darkness of his own room, of his own thoughts, pressed him all around, as with a thick murky suffocating vapour. So, he stood close by the window, watching the daybreak.

As for sleep, never more did wholesome sleep revisit that atrocious mind: laudanum, an ever increasing dose of merciless laudanum, that was the only power which ever seemed to sooth him. For, a horrid vision always accompanied him

now: go where he might, do 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 dodged 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."

ye thousands, the covetous of this world's

good, behold at what a fire ye do warm yourselves dread it: even now, ye have imagined many deaths, whereby your gains may be the greater; ye have caught, in wishful fancy, many a parting sigh; ye have closed, in heartless reverie, many a glazing eye,—yea, of those your very nearest, whom your hopes have done to death and are ye guiltless? God and conscience be your judges!

Even now ye have compassed many frauds, connived at many meannesses, trodden down the good, and set the bad on high, all for gold, hard gold; and are ye the honest, the upright? Speak out manfully your excuse, if ye can find one, ye respectables of merchandise, ye traders, bartering all for cash, ye scribes, ye pharisees, hypocrites, all honourable men.

Even now, your dreams are full of moneybags; your cares are how to add superfluity to wealth; ye fawn upon the rich, ye scorn the poor, ye pine and toil both night and day for gold, more gold; and are ye happy? Answer me, ye covetous ones.

Yet are there righteous gains, God's blessing upon labour: yet is there rightful hope to get those righteous gains. Who can condemn the

poor man's care, though Faith should make his load the lighter? And who will extenuate the rich man's coveting, whose appetite grows with what it feeds on? "Having food and raiment, be therewith content;" that is the golden mean; to that is limited the philosophy of worldliness: the man must live, by labour, and its earnings; but having wherewithal for him and his temperately, let him tie the millstone of anxiety to the wing of faith, and speed that burden to his God.

If Wealth come, beware of him, the smooth false friend there is treachery in his proffered hand, his tongue is eloquent to tempt, lust of many harms is lurking in his eye, he hath a hollow heart; use him cautiously.

If Penury assail, fight against him stoutly, the gaunt grim foe: the curse of Cain is on his brow, toiling vainly; he creepeth with the worm by day, to raven with the wolf by night; diseases battle by his side, and crime followeth his footsteps. Therefore fight against him boldly, and be of a good courage, for there are many with thee; not alone the doled alms, the casual aids dropt from compassion, or wrung out by importunity; these be only temporary helps, and indulgence in them pampers