"The aged man that coffers up his gold, Is plagued with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits, But like still pining Tantalus he sits, And useless barns the harvest of his wits; But torment that it cannot cure his pain." * The ingenious author of the Tin Trumpet remarks-that a miser is one who, though he loves himself better than all the world, uses himself worse: for he lives like a pauper in order that he may enrich his heirs, whom he naturally hates, because he knows they hate him. Perhaps the severest reproach ever made to a miser, was uttered by Voltaire. At a subscription of the French Academy for some charitable object, each contributor putting in a louis d'or, the collector, by mistake, made a second application to a member noted for his penuriousness-"I have already paid," exclaimed the latter with some asperity. "I beg your pardon," said the applicant, "I have no doubt but you paid; I believe it though I did not see it." "And I saw it, and do not believe it," whispered Voltaire. Misers have been compared to many strange things; some liken them to oysters with a pearl in the shell; others style them amateur paupers. Again, misers have been supposed to resemble the hog; a resemblance between them, it has been suggested, has long been recognised by popular tradition; and if we examine the subject closely, we shall find they have more points of likeness than we should at first suppose. The hog is omnivorous and voracious-so the miser grows rich by gathering and converting into money those odds and ends which others throw away. The hog is the scavenger of nature; the miser is the scavenger of society. Both, also, benefit mankind only after their deaththe fat of the hog and the wealth of the miser, which they have spent their lives in accumulating, being of no use during their existence. The animating principle of both miser and hog is, of course, * Shakspeare. selfishness. Both are delvers of the grovelling sort, both are ill-tempered and sometimes cruel. It is noticed by a Swedish writer, that "the hog does not enjoy the society of man, as the dog does. He likes going about by himself, grunting in an undertone, which he prefers to raising his voice to its highest pitch." This is eminently true of the miser. He is thoroughly unsocial in his disposition, burrows by himself, and mutters to himself, not daring to raise his voice in manly tones, lest it should draw attention to his ill-gotten gains, The wretched victim of avarice is ever striving to amass wealth by every expedient that will not subject him to the criminal laws, and to place it in security, is the great and ultimate object of his pursuit. Mammon is the great idol he worships, and whatever the specious and plausible pretexts he may assume, he pays homage at no other shrine, In his selfish isolation, he surrenders himself up to the domination of his debasing passion-a voluntary exile from the endearing offices of friendship, and the gentle charities of domestic and social life. The benign and blessed influence of heaven-born Peace sheds not her halcyon rays upon his dark and desolate heart. A victim to the sordid lust of gold, his mercenary spirit is sus ceptible of no generous impulse or sentiment, worthy of an immortal being-every thought and desire being absorbed in his insatiate cravings after riches. In the words of Dr. Dick, who presents the miser's portrait in all his hideous deformity, "all the avenues to true enjoyment are interrupted, and closely shut up by the cold hand of avarice. He denies himself those sensitive comforts with which Providence has so richly replenished the earth, and has placed within his reach; and even almost starves himself in the midst of plenty. As he approaches the close of his career, and descends to the grave, whither his coveted wealth cannot follow him, his passion for gold acquires an increased intensity, and he clings to his useless but ardently cherished treasures with a fearfully tenacious grasp." The prodigal "spends his substance in riotous living," in the delu sive attempt to secure present enjoyment; and the distribution of his money is at least a benefit to society; but the covetous man is alike injurious to himself and all around him. This passion is not only detestable in its nature, and destructive of every virtue, it is also a disease like that of intemperance, that seldom, if ever, admits of cure. "Other passions have their holidays," says an old writer, "but avarice never suffers its votaries to rest." "O, cursed love of gold! when for thy sake The fool throws up his interest in both worlds." 'Joshua," said Ambrose, "could stop the course of the sun, but all his power could not stop the course of avarice. The sun stood still, but avarice went on; Joshua obtained a victory when the sun stood still; but when avarice was at work Joshua was defeated." We have other recorded facts in sacred story illustrative of the crime of cupidity. Achan's covetous humour made him steal that wedge of gold which served “to cleave his soul from God:" it made Judas betray Christ; and Absalom to attempt to pluck the crown from his father's head. To a reflecting mind it may well cause surprise that the world at large set such paramount value upon the acquisition of wealth. To what voluntary inflictions, sufferings and life-toils, will not men submit for its attainment? Vast wealth brings with it increase of cares, and with multiplied resources we find usually ever-growing wants to be supplied. What material difference is it to us, provided we inhale the perfume of the fragrant flowers, whether they belong to our neighbour or ourself: or whether the fair estate be the property of and called after the name of another, so we are refreshed with the vision? We share a community of interest, in this respect, in all the fair and beautiful things of earth. "For nature's care, to all her children just The beautiful soliloquy of Jeremy Taylor will occur to the reader; he exclaims What now? "I am fallen into the hands of publicans and sequestrators and they have taken all from me. Let me look about me. They have left the sun and moon, fire and water, a loving wife and many friends to pity me, and some to relieve me; and I can discourse; and, unless I list, they have not taken away my merry countenance and my cheerful spirits, and a good conscience; they have still left me the providence of God, and all the promises of the gospel and my religion, and my hope of heaven, and my charity for them too. And still I sleep, and I digest, and eat, and drink; I read and meditate; I can walk in my neighbour's pleasant fields, and see the varieties of natural beauty, and delight in all that in which God delights —that is, in virtue and wisdom, in the whole creation, and in God himself." Sand has written a beautiful apostrophe to Poverty—“ the good goddess Poverty:" we cite a sentence or two : "They have chained the good goddess-they have beaten her and persecuted her; but they cannot debase her. She has taken refuge in the souls of poets, of peasants, of artists, of martyrs, and of saints. Many children has she had, and many a divine secret has she taught them. She does all the greatest and most beautiful things that are done in the world; it is she who cultivates the fields, and prunes the trees—who drives the herds to pasture, singing the while all sweet songs-who sees the day break, and catches the sun's first smile. It is she who inspires the poet, and makes eloquent the guitar, the violin and the flute; who instructs the dexterous artisan, and teaches him to hew stone, to carve marble, to fashion gold and silver, copper and iron. It is she who supplies oil for the lamp, who reaps the harvest fields, kneads bread for us, weaves our *Fenton. garments, in summer and winter, and who maintains and feeds the world. It is she who nurses us in infancy, succours us in sorrow and sickness, and attends us to the silent sleeping-place of death. Thou art all gentleness, all patience, all strength, and all compassion. It is thou who dost reunite all thy children in a holy love, givest them charity, faith, hope, O goddess of Poverty!" Every man is rich or poor, according to the proportion between his desires and enjoyments. Of riches, as of everything else, the hope is more than the enjoyment; while we consider them as the means to be used at some future time for the attainment of felicity, ardour after them secures us from weariness of ourselves; but no sooner do we sit down to enjoy our acquisitions, than we find them insufficient to fill up the vacuities of life. We are poor only when we want necessaries ; it is custom gives the name of poverty to the want of superfluities. Good old Izaak Walton has something to say on this subject, too good to be omitted. Here it is : "I have a rich neighbour that is always so busy that he has no leisure to laugh; the whole business of his life is to get money, more money that he may still get more. He is still drudging, saying what Solomon says: The diligent hand maketh rich.' And it is true, indeed; but he considers not that it is not in the power of riches to make a man happy; for it was wisely said by a man of great observation, 'that there be as many miseries beyond riches as on this side of them.' And yet Heaven deliver us from pinching poverty, and grant that, having a competency, we may be content and thankful. Let us not repine, or so much as think the gifts of God unequally dealt, if we see another abound in riches, when as God knows, the cares that are the keys that keep those riches, hang often so heavily at the rich man's girdle, that they clog him with weary days and restless nights, even where others sleep quietly. We see but the outside of the rich man's happiness; few consider him to be like the silk-worm, that, when she seems to play, is at the same time spinning her own bowels, |