sessor. Every gardener and laborer on a nobleman's estate may participate of the pleasure of viewing his improvements, as well as the owner himself. But, what are all the gorgeous toys and trappings of art, or the beauties which genius can invent, or riches purchase, compared with the beauties and magnificence. of Nature? What are the glitterings of the most pompous procession, or the splendor of a Vauxhall, in comparison of the august spectacle of the vernal sun rising in unclouded majesty, diffusing his beams over surrounding worlds, gladdening the animal tribes, and shedding a radiance on every object in our terrestrial sphere? There is not a scene, though finished with the most costly refinements of art, comparable to the splendor and magnificence of the sun rising in his glory. All on earth appears a dreary waste till the aurora brightens up the East, as the harbinger of the orb of day:-then the plains are arrayed in verdure, the flowers put forth their colors, the glittering spires appear, the birds warble from spray to spray, and renewed life, activity, and beauty, appear throughout our lower creation—as if a new world had emerged from chaotic darkness. What are the finest varnishings of art compared with the polishings of the bodies of insects, or of sea-shells-or the most exquisite pieces of machinery to the mechanism of a plant, a gnat, or a microscopic animalcula? Above all, what can be compared to the glories of the unclouded firmament, where suns unnumbered shine, and myriads of mighty worlds run their ample rounds? Yet all such august and splendid scenes, with all the variety of beauty and magnificence, with which the Almighty has adorned his vast creation-which are open to the contemplation of all—are overlooked by the worldling as unworthy of his regard.

In short, the folly of covetousness appears in its most striking light, in preferring objects which are seen and temporal to those which are unseen and eternal. We can scarcely have an adequate idea of the extreme folly implied in such conduct, unless we could form some adequate conception of what is included in the word ETERNAL. To enable us to form some faint con

ception on this point, some of our old writers have suggested the following illustration: Suppose the whole earth to be made up of particles of sand, and suppose a bird to come every thousand years to pick up and fly away with one grain, how immense must be the duration before the whole sands which compose the earth, could, by this slow process, be removed! as many thousands of years as there are particles of sand in the whole globe of the earth,-which would amount to the following number of years, 30,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, or thirty thousand septillions of years! Yet this immense period of duration, is still but as a point, or a moment, when compared with eternity! On such a supposition, the Schoolmen started the following question. "Suppose that you had it in your choice to be happy all the while this prodigious mass of sand was consuming, by this slow method, till there was not a grain of it left, on condition you were to be miserable forever after ;-or, supposing you might be happy forever after, on condition you would be miserable, till the whole mass of sand were removed or annihilated, at the rate of one sand in a thousand years-which of these two cases would you make your choice?" It must be confessed, that, at first view, considering the extreme length of the period-which, to our limited view, appears like an eternity itself—we should be apt to choose the former in preference to the latter. But our reason tells us, that the latter ought to be our choice, since there is no comparison between the one duration and the other, any more than there is between an unit, and the greatest number of figures or sums we can possibly suppose. What, then, must be the extreme folly of those who for the sake of enjoying a few fleeting baubles, for 20, 30, or 40 years, or at the utmost, for "three score years and ten," will run the risk of experiencing all that is included in the idea of a miserable eternity! How can we sufficiently denounce the stupidity and madness of those who, resolutely and determinately, make so absurd and irrational a choice? especially, when we consider, that even in this life, the path of contentment, and the ways of wisdom and holi

ness, are ways of pleasantness and peace! To prefer trifles to the most momentous objects, shadows to realities, the toys of time to the treasures of eternity-if any thing may be termed folly and madness-such conduct ought to brand every one who is guilty of it, in whatever sphere he moves, with the appellation of a fool, or

a maniac.

If then, riches are only valuable in proportion to their use-if they cannot afford solid satisfaction to the mind— if the objects which the worldling pursues are not to be compared in point of grandeur to those which are within the reach of all-and, if he prefers shadows to realities, and fleeting objects to eternal enjoyments—it must be folly in the extreme for a rational being to have his affections placed upon them as the ultimate object of his pursuit.

4. Consider in what light the objects of covetousness will be viewed, and what comfort they will afford at the approach of death.

When your soul, which has long been immersed in the cares of the world, feels itself hovering on the verge of life, and about to take its flight into the world unknown,

In that dread moment, when the frantic soul
Raves round the walls of its clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain-

in what a very different light will you view the perishing treasures of time from that in which you now behold them? You now trust in uncertain riches, and refuse to place your confidence in the living God, who is the alone source of felicity. But, "will riches profit you in the day of wrath," or amidst the agonies of dissolving nature? Will they smooth your dying pillow, or assuage the bitter anguish of your spirit, when heart and flesh begin to faint and fail? Will they then be viewed as a sufficient compensation for the dismal forebodings of future woe which may then assail your con

science, and render you a terror to yourself and to all around you? Alas! they will only tend to plant thorns on your dying couch, to sharpen every pang, and to augment the horrors of despair. Conscience, now lulled asleep amidst earthly vanities, may then awake, "like a giant refreshed with wine," and pierce your hearts through with unutterable sorrows. Many striking instances of this kind have been witnessed by the ministers of religion, when called upon to attend the death bed of the worldly and profane. "Had I now a thousand worlds," said a certain worldling who bore a fair character, "Had I a thousand worlds, I would give them all for one year more, that I might present to God one year of such devotion and good works as I never before so much as intended." The noble Altamont,* who had spent his life in all the fashionable dissipations of the world, a little before his death, on hearing the clock strike, exclaimed with vehemence, "O Time! Time! it is fit thou shouldst thus strike the murderer to the heart. How art thou now fled forever! A month! O for a single week! I ask not for years— though an age were too little for the much I have to do." And, a little afterwards, "This body is all weakness and pain, but my soul, as if strung up, by torment, to greater strength and spirit, is full powerful to reason, full mighty to suffer." Cardinal Wolsey, whose grand aim through life was worldly aggrandizement, a little before he died, declared with anguish, in the midst of his disgrace "Had I but served God as diligently as I have served the king, he would not have given me over in my grey hairs." In like manner, many a one at the hour of dissolution will have to exclaim, "If I had been as anxious to attend to the eternal interests of my immortal spirit, as to lay up treasures which I can never use, I would not have been left to suffer the pangs of remorse which I now feel."

Such considerations demand the most serious attention of those who have grown old in the habits of covetousness, and whose grey-hairs and infirmities, warn

* Supposed to be Lord Euston.-Young's "Centaur not fabulous."

It

them that they are on the confines of the grave. has been remarked, that, as in winter, the roots of plants retain the sap, when the branches have lost their leaves and verdure, so, in old age, the winter of life, covetousness," the root of all evil," retains its vigor, when other vices have withered, and fallen into decay. It is strange, indeed, but not more strange than true, that the nearer such men approach to the earth, they become more earthly-minded, so that, at the evening of life, they appear as if they were providing for a long and prosperous day. No one is more fearful of want, and more hard and griping, than the old miser, who is just about to step into the grave. While other vicious propensities are weakened by the lapse of time, covetousness derives new life and vigor, as age increases. Like a patient in the dropsy, whose thirst is inflamed by drinking, the desires of the covetous are augmented, by increasing riches, and they are never more tainted with earthly affections, than when their bodies are about to be reduced to their original dust.

The difficulty of subduing such a woful propensity, especially in the decline of life, is great, and, in most cases, insurmountable. It is like tearing the skin from the flesh, or the flesh from the bones. There are not perhaps twenty out of a thousand, on whom the most cogent or alarming arguments will have the least ef fect in awakening them to consideration, or turning them from their covetousness. The vicious principle they indulge is so subtle, that you cannot lay hold of it, so as to render it tangible. It is so deeply seated, that you cannot draw it from its hiding place to make it visible in the face of day. You may convince a man who goes on in a regular course of licentiousness, and intemperance of the folly and wickedness of his conduct, by showing him the inevitable miseries to which it leads even in the present life. But we have no such hold on the covetous. In reply to every argument, he will tell you, that what we call covetousness, is only a necessary prudence to augment his estate and secure it from danger, to provide for the wants of his family, and leave something to his children, when he is gone;