life, to which all other considerations and springs of action became subordinate. His family painfully felt the consequences of this growing slavish passion for money, in their restricted expenditure and their prohibited enjoyments.

Time passed on, and Mr. Tempest was visited by domestic sorrow. His wife and his two children were, ere long, removed by death. His domestic associations being thus withered to the root, the effect on himself was indeed a moral calamity. For his master-passion, now left more absolute and uncontrolled by corrective influences, almost completely obliterated the traces of those gentle and benevolent emotions which, at an earlier period, had given grace and dignity to his character. "Then I returned, and I saw vanity under the sun. There is one alone, and there is not a second; yea, he hath neither child nor brother: yet is there no end of all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches; neither saith he, For whom do I labour, and bereave my soul of good? This is also vanity, yea, it is a sore travail," Eccles. iv. 7, 8.

Many years afterwards, when Mr. Tempest was advanced in age, I became a resident in his neighbourhood. He was then isolated from society, with the exception of a very few friends with whom he had been intimate from early life. Other persons could not obtain access to him without considerable difficulty, partly from a distaste for society, which had grown upon him, and partly from a miserable apprehension that it might involve the courtesies of hospitality, or some invasion of his purse for objects in which he felt no interest. The example of the good Samaritan had no charms for him, and to wipe away the tears of the afflicted was a blessedness he could not appreciate and did not covet. For years he had ceased attending divine service on the sabbath, not from any physical incapacity, but from indifference to its spiritual privileges, or to avoid those searchings of heart which the constant hearing of the TRUTH rendered inevitable. From early youth to the close of the middle period of life, he had attended a gospel ministry, and was therefore instructed in the doctrines of the cross of Christ, and aware of the practical duties they enjoined. It was, in consequence, not easy for him to listen to the truth on the sabbath-day, while his spirit and conduct were literally a crucifixion of the moral principles of Christianity, and he found it convenient and agreeable to shun the light, "lest his deeds should be reproved." His benevolences had a lingering existence for some time after he ceased to attend public worship. As a last relic, he sent half-a-crown a year to a neighbouring charity school. At length this also ceased.

On reviewing his history up to this point, it is impossible not to be reminded of the language of St. Paul, "But they that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows," 1 Tim. vi. 9, 10.

We must pass on to the last year of Mr. Tempest's life. A few months before his death, Mr. Sherberne, an old friend, called on him, when the following conversation took place.

Mr. Sherberne. I have heard that your health is not so vigorous as formerly, and I was anxious therefore to make personal inquiry.

Mr. Tempest. I am much obliged by your kindness, but I am, on the whole, tolerably well.

Mr. S. Of course you must feel increasingly the infirmities of advancing years, if you have not any more serious cause for anxiety.

Mr. T. Yes, I have not the vigour I once possessed, but I do not feel any special apprehension about my health.

Mr. S. I think that with your ample fortune, you do an injustice to yourself by not employing suitable means to resuscitate the vigour of your health. I should be happy to hear of your seeking a change of air, by an occasional residence on the coast.

Mr. T. Excuse me, but I must differ from you in opinion; I think such a course would be a needless expenditure of money. Mr. S. The expenditure ought to be no object with you. Mr. T. You may imagine so; I think I ought to take care of what I possess.

Mr. S. It would be a rational course to take more care of yourself than of your money.

Mr. T. Well, what do you think I am worth?

Mr. S. Four hundred and eighty thousand pounds.

Mr. T. You are below the mark, and the best of it is (striking his hand on his knee with an energetic expression), I know where every shilling of it is.

Mr. S. Indeed! I am surprised that you should, without a reference to papers.

Mr. T. Oh, I am familiar with my affairs, and allow nothing to escape my attention.

Although Mr. Tempest assured his friend that his health was not enfeebled, yet such was not the fact. And he had himself a secret under-current of fear respecting vulsive clinging of his heart to the present life.

it, and a conAt this very

time his physician was visiting him daily, in obedience to his positive injunction; and he had given Dr. to understand that he must never intimate to him the approach of death. For a considerable time Dr. acted on this principle, agreeably to his patient's wishes; but at length he felt it a moral duty to drop such expressions as would convey to him a becoming sense of his danger. About ten weeks subsequently to Mr. Sherberne's call, Dr. on visiting Mr. Tempest, said, “I am sorry at not finding improvement after the means I have employed; and cannot but fear that you are gradually sinking.” Mr. T. I certainly am feeble, but still I cannot see any reason for your apprehensions.

"

Dr. There is a considerable diminution of vital energy, which I cannot conceal from you wears a very serious aspect. If any attention is required to your temporal affairs, I would advise you to seek relief from any anxiety they may involve. Mr. T. I am surprised at your advice; of course, I cannot but understand the intimation conveyed by your remarks.

,

Dr. -. I am sorry to make any observations disappointing or painful to you, I have only done so from a sense of duty. Mr. T. At an early period of your professional attendance, I desired you never to make any communication to me like that you have now done. I will not trouble you to call again. Three weeks after the dismission of Dr. on a cold, dark winter evening, I was seated in my study, when I heard a knock at the door. My servant soon informed me that Mr. Tempest's man wished to speak with me. He stated that his master was very ill, and he brought a request that I would visit him immediately. I instantly returned with the messenger, and in half an hour reached Mr. Tempest's residence. I found no relative or friend in the house, but was conducted to the housekeeper, a respectable and well-educated lady. She said, "Oh! sir, Mr. Tempest is very ill, and his mind is in such distress that I felt obliged to send for you." I requested her to explain to me more particularly his state of mind; she replied, "Oh! sir, there is a restless anguish upon him, and he is continually exclaiming, That idol-that great idol-that TREMENDOUS IDOL!' and then he looks at us imploringly, and says, Pray for me-pray for me!' I know, of course, what that idol is which now distresses him." We proceeded to the sick chamber, and I shall not soon forget the hour I spent there. It was the most melancholy scene of human sorrow I ever was called to witness. I sat down by the bed for a few moments in pensive silence, and Mr. Tempest turned and looked at me with an expression that seemed to say

6

THE ENGLISH MONTHLY TRACT SOCIETY, 27, RED LION SQUARE, LONDON.

"Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow?"

His conscience had now awoke, and he was writhing beneatn its accusations. His groans were deep, audible, and piercing. With a depth of emotion which I cannot express, he entreated me to pray for him. I did so, and conversed with him, pointing him to the "Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world;" and I did not leave him until he was exhausted. His convictions of sin were deep, but he shed no tears; he struggled to reach in his own consciousness a ground of hope, but an ebbing wave of moral terror ever bore him back, and he continued disconsolate.

At an early hour on the following morning I hastened to his residence, but ere I reached it I was met by a messenger, who said, "Sir, I was coming to inform you that Mr. Tempest died at five o'clock this morning."

This brief history unfolds a moral lesson, and I hope the reader of these pages will listen to its warning voice. Let him not suppose that I have any morbid or ascetic objection to the mere acquisition of wealth; yet would I assure him that it is not without dangers, and the case I have given is a terrible instance of its perils. That the possession of wealth may tend to corrupt the heart is unquestionable, but not inevitable; and while I would point out the moral guilt it may occasion, I shall show the excellent uses to which it may be applied.

First, I would suggest what money can do. It is a defence against many physical privations. By the "sweat of the brow," or the more exhausting labour of the brain, the masses of mankind struggle to keep from the door the spectral forms of indigence. A precarious or defective supply of food or raiment produces destructive evils, and great sorrows. Such evils are not imaginary but real, as many a broken spirit can testify. Money operates as a shield against these enemies of domestic happiness. It commands an abundant supply of all necessary provisions, and is a shelter from many of the rude storms of life. I may add, that it affords the means of gratifying cultivated and elegant tastes, and this is no small item in the category of pure, and even ennobling pleasures.

Money is a defence against much of the suffering, and many of the consequences, of disease. For it commands medical skill, ample attendance, suitable diet, requisite leisure, and the means of travelling; and is thus available in controlling many of the painful forms of physical malady, and in saving

from premature death. Many a fair flower of this earth would have early perished, but for the ability which money gave to secure alleviating and restorative influences.

Money is a defence against many depressing cares. No man can wisely become indifferent to the future; the great danger lies in being feverishly anxious respecting it. More especially so where families, dependent on the health or toil of a parent, may, in case of failure, be reduced to circumstances of pitiable privation. What inward struggles a tender and thoughtful man has, when he reflects on the throes of widowed hearts, and the neglected griefs of orphan weakness! Property is a defence against these nervous fears, and often dissipates from the valley of death one of its deepest shadows.

Secondly, I would point out what money may do. It may make its possessor a benefactor to his race. He may know the blessedness of doing good on a large scale, than which no greater felicity visits the human heart. Let me quote the beautiful language of one who served his generation well. "When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me: because I delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me and I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy. I put on righteousness, and it clothed me: my judgment was as a robe and a diadem. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame. I was a father to the poor: and the cause which I knew not I searched out. And I brake the jaws of the wicked, and plucked the spoil out of his teeth," Job xxix. 11-17. To act up to this great example would be the fairest coronet ever worn by the noble and the wealthy. To add force to this example, by the reverse picture, let me urge the reader to turn to his Bible, and read thoughtfully our Lord's parable, recorded Matt. xxv. 31-46.

I further remark that money may render a man a great criminal in the sight of God. First, by inducing a miserable covetousness, which crushes every benevolent emotion, it becomes dead to every heaven-born sentiment, and sneers at every noble effort to elevate our fallen and suffering nature. Of this avarice I have given a painful illustration, where all sense of duty to God, and all consciousness of duty to man, were apparently lost, under the blinding influence of this wretched passion. Secondly, by its being employed to gratify licentious passions. Devotees to immoral pleasures, whose ample resources are employed to satisfy depraved tastes, are equally guilty of abusing the wealth which God gave them for