ing poverty at bay. He need not plunge into the ocean in order to drown himself—a very shallow stream will suffice, if he chooses to lie prostrate in it; and the desire of the smallest gain, if his heart be immersed in the pursuit, will as certainly "drown him in perdition," as if the object of his cupidity were the wealth of a Croesus. He takes his character, and incurs his danger, not from the magnitude of his object, but from the unceasing and undivided manner in which he pursues it. Though his worldliness may be quiet and equable in its operation, yet, like an ever-flowing stream, it gradually wears his whole soul into one channel, which drains off his thoughts and affections from higher ground, and carries them all in a steady current in that single direction; while his occasional impressions of a religious nature only ripple its surface for a moment, and vanish, without in the least retarding its onward course.

But to specify all the forms of covetousness, and to trace it in all its modifications, is impossible. Capable of combining with all motives, and penetrating all actions, in its symptoms or its practice it is every where to be found. It acknowledges no conqueror but the grace of God, and owns no

limit but that of the world. Our great epic poet, with equal sublimity and propriety, gives to it an existence even beyond this world. Recording the history of Mammon-the Scripture personification of cupidity-he describes him as

"the least erected spirit that fell

From heaven for even in heaven his looks and thoughts

Were always downward bent; admiring more

The riches of heaven's pavement, trodden gold,
Than aught divine or holy else, enjoyed

In vision beatific."

The moral of which is, that covetousness is one of the eldest-born of sin, and a prime leader in the satanic empire of evil; that no nature is too lofty, no place too sacred, for its presence; that, being a universal passion, no enterprise is too daring for it to attempt, no sphere too extended for its range.

One of the great objects of the personal ministry of our Lord himself, appears to have been to make us aware of the universality of this passion, and to save us from it. Sin having expelled the love of God from the heart, he saw that the love of the world had rushed in to fill up the vacuum; that the desire of riches, as an abstract of all other worldly desires, has become a universal passion, in

which all other appetites and passions concur, since it is the readiest means to gratify them all. To the eye of an ordinary observer, the generation of that day appeared to be only laudably employed in their respective avocations; but, penetrating the thin disguises of custom, he beheld the world converted into a mart in which every thing was exposed for sale. To a common observer, the confused pursuits and complicated passions of mankind might have presented an aspect of evershifting forms, as incapable of classification as the waves of the sea; but to his comprehensive view there appeared but two great classes, in which all minor distinctions were merged-the servants of God, and the servants of Mammon. To his unerring and omniscient glance, the whole world appeared to be engrossed in a laborious experiment to effect a compromise between these two claimants: but against such an accommodation he enters his divine protest; affirming, with the solemnity and confidence of one who knew that though the experiment had been made and repeated in every form and in every age, it had failed as often as it had been made, and will prove eternally impracticable, "Ye cannot serve God

and mammon."

To an ordinary observer, the

charge of covetousness could only be alleged against a few individuals; but he tracked it through the most unsuspected windings, laid open some of its most concealed operations, and showed that, like the elemental fire, it is not only present where it is grossly visible, but that it is all-pervading, and co-extensive with human depravity.

Entering the mart of the busy world, where nothing is heard but the monotonous hum of the traders in vanity, he lifts up his voice like the trump of God, and seeks to break the spell which infatuates them, while he exclaims, "What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" Proceeding to the mansion of Dives, he shows selfishness there, clothed in purple and fine linen, and faring sumptuously every day, a spectacle at which the multitude stands in earnest and admiring gaze, as if it drew in happiness at the sight,—but Lazarus unheeded perishes at the gate. Approaching the house of prosperity, he bids us listen to the soliloquy of its worldly inhabitant, "I will pull down my barns, and will build greater"-a resolution which the

H

Passing into the circle

world applauds—" And I will say to my soul, Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry" -a prospect of happiness which the world envies: but God is not in all his thoughts; besides his wealth, he knows no god. of devotion, he pointed out the principle of covetousness there, mingling in the worship of God, choking the word, and rendering it unfruitful. Penetrating the heart, he unveiled its hateful presence there, as the leaven of hypocrisy, and the seed of theft.

And can we wonder at the energy and frequency with which he denounced it, when we remember how frequently it came into direct personal contact with himself, defeating his tenderest solicitudes, and robbing him of souls he yearned to save? It was covetousness which rendered unfruitful so large a proportion of that heavenly seed which he had come to sow. It was this which begrudged him the anointing for his burial. It was this which robbed his kingdom of a subject, just at the moment when "the young man" appeared to be about to fall into his train; and which drew from him the affecting exclama