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 silence of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men, a spirit passes before his face, bearing a very astonishing resemblance to a former acquaintance of his, now, alas! deceased; and, although he is above the weakness of believing in "spirits," yet he often catches himself exclaiming, "By God, I believe it's his ghost!"—an out-creation of his foul within. From this day forward, the invisible fangs of Public Opinion, go deeper and deeper into his soul—a moral augur, sinking an artesian shaft into his very centre—until, at last, the waters are reached, and burst forth in one full, deep stream of agony—Remorse. The executed suffered about ten deaths, in expiation of the one life he took; but this wretch, whose crime is not known, suffers a dozen deaths a day.

Now, in a community where man-slaying don't count much against a citizen, this fellow would not have suffered one whit more than did the soldier, or Jack Ketch. * * * * I said that there were two kinds of demons. Having described one, we will glance rapidly at the other; the process is simple enough. A man's elevation on the scale depends upon himself—if he loves disorder more than its opposite, hatred than love, the deformed than the lovely—why, the man, in so far forth as he departs from rectitude of his own purpose and will, just so far does he demonize himself. And as there is no limit to advancement or descension, so he may become guileful to an immense degree—be a demon. There are myriads of such within the compass, and on the confines of the Material Realms, but none beyond them in the Divine City of Pure Spirit. But within those limits exists a Badness, so awful, so vast, that the