ages--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.

It may yet go hard with Roger Acton. Jennings is a man of character,
especially the farther from his home; the county round take him for a
model of propriety, a sample of the strictest conduct. We know the bad
man better; but who dare breathe against the bailiff in his
power--against the caitiff in his sleek hypocrisy--that, while he makes
a show of both humilities, he fears not God nor man? What shall hinder,
that the perjured wretch offer up to the manes of the murdered the
life-blood of the false-accused? May he not live yet many years, heaping
up gold and crime? And may not sweet Grace Acton--her now repentant
father--the kindly Jonathan--his generous master, and if there be any
other of the Hurstley folk we love, may they not all meet destruction at
his hands, as a handful of corn before the reaper's sickle? I say not
that they shall, but that they might. Acton's criminal state of mind,
and his hunger after gold--gold any how--have earned some righteous
retribution, unless Providence in mercy interpose; and young Sir John,
in now