treasure, recalling all the petty crimes by which he gained it. Not a
coin must he fail to reckon in his memory, nor forget a pennyworth of
the sin that made up the sum, though his agony is such as if the pieces
of gold, red-hot, were stamped into his naked soul. Often, while he is
in torment there, he hears the steps of living men, who love the dross
of earth as well as he did. May they never groan over their miserable
wealth like him! Night after night, for above a hundred years, hath he
done this penance, and still must he do it, till the iron box be brought
to light, and each separate coin be cleansed by grateful tears of a
widow or an orphan. My spirit sighs for his long vigil at the corner of
the market-house!

There are ghosts whom I tremble to meet, and cannot think of without a
shudder. One has the guilt of blood upon him. The soul which he thrust
untimely forth has long since been summoned from our gloomy graveyard,
and dwells among the stars of heaven, too far and too high for even the
recollection of mortal anguish to ascend thither. Not so the murderer's
ghost! It is his doom to spend all the hours of darkness in the spot
which he stained with innocent blood, and to feel the hot stream--hot as
when it first gushed upon his hand--incorporating itself with his
spiritual substance. Thus his horrible crime is ever fresh within him.
Two other wretches are condemned to walk arm in arm. They were guilty
lovers in their lives, and still, in death, must wear the guise of love,
though hatred and loathing have become their very nature and existence.
The pollution of their mutual sin remains with them, and makes their
souls sick continually. O, that I might forget all the dark shadows
which haunt about these graves! This passing thought of them has left a
stain, and will weigh me down among dust and sorrow, beyond the time
that my own transgressions would have kept me here. There is one shade
among us, whose high nature it is good to meditate upon. He lived a