We see them struggling in the billows of adversity, and as our proud bark of wealth glides swiftly by, we extend no helping hand to the worn swimmer.

And yet we can look upon our past life with complacency, can delight to recall the hours of happiness we have past, and if some scene of penury and grief is recalled to our memory, we drive away the thought of what we then beheld and sought not to better.
What is that that makes man's heart cold as the mountain tops of Kamtschatka?
It is that cursed greed for gain--that all absorbing ambition for fortune--that warps the heart and turns to adamant all those attributes of gentleness with which God has made us.

The haggard beggar and the affluent man of the world, must eventually share the same fate.

No matter that on the grave of the first--"no storied urn records who rests below," while on the grave of the other, we find in sculptured marble long eulogies of those who rest beneath, telling us "not what he was, but what he should have been." Their end is the same, for beneath the same sod they "sleep the last sleep that knows no waking," and their spirits wing their flight to the same eternal realms, there to be judged by their own merits, and not by the station they occupied below.
If there are men in this world who cannot be changed by wealth, Swartz was not of the number.

What cared he for the sighs of the desolate, the appeals of the hungry, or the tears of the helpless?
His duty was but to fill his coffers with money, and not to expend it in aimless deeds of charity.