it be possible that I am as real as any one else, and that all
of us--the cashier and banker at the Bank, the King on his
throne--all feel ourselves like ghosts and goblins in this
authentic world?




_Mammon_


Moralists and Church Fathers have named it the root of all Evil,
the begetter of hate and bloodshed, the sure cause of the soul's
damnation. It has been called "trash," "muck," "dunghill
excrement," by grave authors. The love of it is denounced in all
Sacred Writings; we find it reprehended on Chaldean bricks, and
in the earliest papyri. Buddha, Confucius, Christ, set their
faces against it; and they have been followed in more modern
times by beneficed Clergymen, Sunday School Teachers, and the
leaders of the Higher Thought. But have the condemnations of all
the ages done anything to tarnish that bright lustre? Men dig
for it ever deeper into the earth's intestines, travel in search
of it farther and farther to arctic and unpleasant regions.

In spite of all my moral reading, I must confess that I like to
have some of this gaudy substance in my pocket. Its presence
cheers and comforts me, diffuses a genial warmth through my
body. My eyes rejoice in the shine of it; its clinquant sound is
music in my ears. Since I then am in his paid service, and
reject none of the doles of his bounty, I too dwell in the House