on any account, say no."
"That will depend, Thomas, in what manner you are to render him a
kindness. If you can do so without really injuring yourself or others,
then it is a duty which you owe to all men, to be kind, and render
favours. You know, also, the precept, 'Whatsoever ye would that men
should do unto you, do ye so to them.'"
"But the difficulty, I feel, will be for me to discriminate. When I am
urged to do something by one whom I esteem, my regard for him, or my
desire to render him a kindness, will be so strong as to obscure my
judgment."
"A consciousness of this weakness in your character, Thomas, should put
you upon your guard."
"That is very true, father. But I cannot help fearing for myself. Still,
I shall never forget what you have said, and will try my best to act
from a conviction of right."
"Do so, my son. And ever remember that a wrong action is _always_
followed by pain of mind, and too frequently by evil consequences. If
you would avoid these, ever act from a consciousness that you are doing
right, without regard to others. If another asks you, from a selfish
desire to benefit or gratify himself, to do that which your judgment
tells you is wrong, surely you should have no hesitation in refusing."
The precept of his father, enforced when they were about parting, and at
a time when his affections for that father were active and intense,
lingered in the mind of Thomas Howland. He saw and felt its force, and
resolved to act in obedience to it, if ever tempted to do wrong.
On leaving the paternal roof, he went to a distant town, and entered the
store of a merchant, where were several young men nearly of his own
age--that is, between eighteen and twenty. With one of these, named
Boyd, he soon formed an intimate acquaintance. But, unfortunately, the
moral character of this young man was far from being pure, or his
principles from resting upon the firm basis of truth and honour.
Associated with him at the same desk day after day, his growing
influence over Thomas Howland soon became apparent in inducing him to
stay away from church on the Sabbath-day, and pass the time that had
heretofore been spent in a place of worship in roaming about the wharves
of the city, or in excursions into the country. This influence was
slightly resisted; but Thomas felt ashamed or reluctant to use the word
"_No_," on what seemed to all the young men around him a matter of so
little importance. Still, his own heart condemned him, for he felt that
it would pain his father and mother exceedingly if they knew that he
neglected to attend church at least once on the Sabbath-day; and he was,
besides, self-convicted of wrong in what seemed to him a violation of
the command, "_Remember the Sabbath-day_," as he had been taught to
regard that precept. But once having given way, he felt almost powerless
to resist the influence that now bore upon him.
[Illustration: EVIL INFLUENCE.]
The next violation of what seemed to him a right course for a young man
to pursue, was in suffering himself to be persuaded to visit frequently
the theatre; although his father had expressly desired that he would
avoid a place where lurked, for the young and inexperienced, so many
dangers. He was next easily persuaded to visit a favourite eating-house,
in which many hours were spent during the evenings of each week, with
Boyd and others, in eating, drinking, and smoking. Sometimes dominoes
and back-gammon were introduced, and at length were played for a slight
stake. To participate in this, Thomas refused, on the plea that he did
not know enough of the games to risk anything. He had not the moral
courage to declare that he considered it wrong to gamble.
All these departures from what he had been taught by his father to
consider a right course, were attended by much uneasiness and pain of
mind. But he had yielded to the tempter, and he could not now find the
power within him to resist his influence successfully.
It happened, about six months after his introduction to such an entirely
new course of life, that he was invited one evening by his companion
Boyd to call on a friend with him. He had, on that day, received from
his father five pounds, with which to buy himself a new suit of clothes,
and a few other necessary articles. He went, of course, and was
introduced to a very affable, gentlemanly young man, in his room, at one
of the hotels. In a few minutes, wine and cigars were ordered, and the
three spent an hour or so in drinking, smoking, and chit-chat of no
very elevating or refined character.
"Come, let us have a game of cards," at last remarked Boyd's friend,
during a pause in the conversation; at the same time going to his trunk,
and producing a pack of cards.
"No objection," responded Boyd.
"You will take a hand, of course?" said the new friend, looking at
Thomas Howland.
But Thomas said that he knew nothing of cards.
"Oh, that's no matter! You can learn in two minutes," responded the
friend of Boyd.
Young Howland felt reluctant; but he could not resist the influence that
was around him, and so he consented to finger the cards with the rest.
As they gathered around the table, a shilling was laid down by each of
the young men, who looked towards Thomas as they did so.
"I cannot play for money," said Howland, colouring; for he felt really
ashamed to acknowledge his scruples.
"And why not?" asked the friend of Boyd, looking him steadily in the
face.
"Because I think it wrong," stammered out Howland, colouring still more
deeply.
"Nonsense! Is not your money your own? What harm, then, is there in your
doing with your own as you please?" urged the tempter.
"But I do not know enough of the game to risk my money."
"You don't think we would take advantage of your ignorance?" said Boyd.
"The stake is only to give interest to the game. I would not give a
copper for a game of cards without a stake. Come, put down your
shilling; and we will promise to pay you back all you lose, if you wish
it, until you acquire some skill."
But Thomas felt reluctant, and hesitated. Nevertheless, he was debating
the matter in his mind seriously, and every moment that reluctance was
growing weaker.
"Will you play?" asked Boyd in a decided tone, breaking in upon his
debate.
"I had rather not," replied Thomas, trying to smile, so as to conciliate
his false friends.
"You are afraid of your money," said Boyd, in a half-sneering tone.
"It is not that, Boyd."
"Then what is it, pray?"
"I am afraid that it is not right."
This was answered by a loud laugh from his two companions, which touched
Thomas a good deal, and made him feel more ashamed of the scruples that
held him back from entering into the temptation.
"Come, down with your stake, Howland!" said Boyd, after he had finished
his laugh.
The hand of Thomas was in his pocket, and his fingers had grasped the
silver coin, yet still he hesitated.
"Will you play, or not?" asked Boyd's friend, with something of
impatience in his tone. "Say yes, or no."
For a moment the mind of Thomas became confused; then the perception
came upon him as clear as a sunbeam, that it was wrong to gamble. He
remembered, too, vividly, his father's parting injunction.
"_No!_" he said, firmly and decidedly.
Both of his companions looked disappointed and angry.
"What did you bring him here for?" he heard Boyd's companion say to him
in an undertone, while a frown darkened upon his brow.
The reply did not reach his ear; but he felt that his company was no
longer pleasant, and rising, he bade them a formal good-evening, and
hurriedly retired. That little word _no_ had saved him. The scheme was,
to win from him his five pounds, and then involve him in "debts of
honour," as they are falsely called, which would compel him to draw
upon his father for more money, or abstract it from his employer, a
system which had been pursued by Boyd, and which was discovered only a
week subsequent, when the young man was discharged in disgrace. It then
came out that he had been for months in secret association with a
gambler, and that the two shared together their spoils and peculations.
This incident roused Thomas Howland to a distinct consciousness of the
danger that lurked in his path, as a young man, in a large city. He
felt, as he had not felt while simply listening to his father's precept,
the value of the word _no_; and resolved that hereafter he would utter
that little word--and that, too, decidedly--whenever urged to do what
his judgment did not approve.
"I will be free!" he said, pacing his chamber backward and forward. "I
will be free hereafter! No one shall persuade me or drive me to do what
I feel to be wrong."
That resolution was his safeguard ever after. When tempted--and he was
tempted frequently--his "_No_" decided the matter at once. There was a
power in it that was all-sufficient in resisting evil.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ENTER NOT INTO THE PATH OF THE WICKED. Prov.]
Little Charlie's Will.
Walter and Charlie Harrison were the sons of a sea captain, and lived in
one of the fine old seaport towns of M----.
These boys were as unlike as two brothers could well be. Walter was a
rough, plain boy, large of his age, and rather clumsy, with a
passionate, jealous temper, which gave his friends a great deal of
trouble. But he had some noble qualities; he was as brave as a young
lion, faithful, diligent, perfectly honest and truthful, and sometimes
very tender in his feelings. Charlie, some two years younger than
Walter, was a delicate, beautiful, sweet-tempered boy, who loved
everybody, and, in return, was greatly beloved. He was fair, pale, and
slight, with blue eyes and golden curls. Walter said he looked like a
girl, and sometimes laughed at his delicacy; but, for all that, he was
jealous of the poor child's beauty--even of his weakness.
Captain Harrison was most of the time at sea, and his gentle wife found
it difficult to control the impatient spirit, or correct the even more
unamiable moodiness, of her eldest son. If she reproved him sternly, he
would often accuse her of being partial to her youngest and handsomest
son, and say that she petted and indulged Charlie so much, that he could
not be disobedient, or give her any trouble; he himself, he said, would
be good, if he were so treated.
Walter really thought himself slighted and unloved, because he knew he
was very plain, and he saw his sickly brother cared for constantly. He
never seemed to think how ridiculous it would look in his mother to be
nursing and petting a stout, healthy boy, who was one of the strongest
wrestlers, and the best hand with the ball, in all the town.
Walter, with all his fine health, was often silent and sullen, while his
brother was seldom prevented by his illness from being cheerful and
talkative. So it was very natural for visitors to notice Charlie the
most, and, as they supposed he needed amusing, to send him books and
make him presents. All this "partiality" was shown to his brother,
Walter said, because he happened to have a fair face; while he did not
know how to put himself forward. Charlie was grieved at this, and always
wished to share his gifts with his brother; but Walter could never be
persuaded to accept anything.
One time, when Charlie was about ten years old, his mother had a visit
from a pious maiden aunt, who spent some weeks in the family. During
Miss Hannah Perkins' stay, she became much attached to quiet little
Charlie; but as Walter gave way to his temper two or three times before
her, and made sport of some of her queer ways, she did not like him
overmuch, though she thought he might be made a good boy of, with proper
management. She wondered how his mother could let such fits of passion
and such naughty tricks pass without severe punishment. If he were her
child, she said, she would soon whip that bad temper out of him. But
Mrs. Harrison believed that one blow would put more evil passion into
the heart of such a proud boy as Walter than she could ever get out.
She never failed seriously to reprove his faults and wrong actions; and
she knew (what she told no one) that Walter would always come to her,
after an outburst of impatience or bad feeling, and ask her forgiveness.
She knew that he loved her, his father, brother, and little sister,
intensely: so she was patient, and prayed God to soften the heart and
subdue the temper of her unhappy child.
A short time after Aunt Hannah returned home, she sent the boys each a
book. Charlie's happened to be opened first. It was a handsome
illustrated copy of "Robinson Crusoe." Walter then eagerly opened his
own, which was rather gaily bound. It was "_The Memoirs of a
Sunday-school Scholar_." Walter flung it down, saying angrily, "What did
the old maid send me this for, I wonder? I have had enough of such
things out of the Sunday-school library. She did not send you such a
humdrum sort of a book, Charlie. I suppose she thought you were pious
enough without."
"O brother," said Charlie, "don't talk so hard. I am sure Aunt Hannah
meant very kindly by us both."
Walter took up his book, and began looking through it; but he soon broke
out again--"Pshaw! just as I thought; nothing but 'early piety,' 'early
piety.' Why, couldn't she have sent me some story about wars, or
pirates, or even Indians? I am tired to death of 'early piety!'"
"You will never trouble your friends with it, my son," said Mrs.
Harrison, who had just entered the room. Walter started and blushed; he
did not know that his mother was so near. But he replied, sullenly, "I
wish I might not trouble them in any way any longer. It would be better
for all if I were dead and buried; for I'm of no use in the world, and
nobody loves me."
After having said these unkind words, Walter took his ball-club, and
went out to the village green, where the boys were already at play.
Charlie soon followed; not to mingle in the sport, for he was not strong
enough for that, but he loved always to watch his brother, and felt
proud of his skill and strength.
After about half an hour's play, many of the boys set out for home, as
a hard storm seemed coming on. The clouds were rolling up thick and
black, the lightnings flashed, and the thunder broke overhead. Walter
Harrison, who had appeared half angry in all his play, was now leaning
against the side of the church, within a yard or two of the
lightning-rod. The boys called to him to come away, as he was in a
dangerous place; but Walter would not stir. Charlie ran up to him, and
begged him to go home; but he only said, "I don't care if the lightning
does strike me. I tell you again, I'm of no use in the world--nobody
loves me. You may run home, if you are afraid."
"I am not afraid for myself, brother," said Charlie, his lip quivering;
"but I will go home and beg mamma to come for you."
Charlie had not run half across the green, when there came a great blaze
of lightning, and a heavy crash of thunder, which seemed to shake the
very ground. The boys who were looking toward the church said that they
saw the lightning roll down the rod like a ball of fire, and disappear
in the earth; and that, at the same instant, Walter fell to the ground.
They ran to him at once, raised him up, and carried him home. The poor
boy's eyes and mouth were open, but he seemed quite dead. The doctor was
sent for--came immediately--took Walter from the bed, laid him on the
floor, and began pouring cold water upon him by the bucketful. Mrs.
Harrison had been strangely calm at first; but when Walter began to show
some little signs of life, the joy was more than she could bear, and she
fainted away. She went from one fainting fit into another; and when
Walter was at last so much restored as to ask for her, she was lying
quite insensible. Then first he knew how deeply and dearly his mother
loved him. Little Charlie threw himself down by Walter, in the water,
which was flooding the room, and the brothers kissed one another, and
cried for joy. It was many days before Walter was entirely well; but
when he did get about, everybody noticed a great change in him. He was
more kind and pleasant; far less jealous and passionate, he was happier,
and made others happier, than ever before. He was so sure now that his
mother truly loved him; and he knew, he said, that he could never again
be jealous of his little brother. But, alas! Walter did not know
himself. When he was fourteen, and his brother--still called "Little
Charlie"--about twelve, a wealthy uncle came from Boston for a brief
visit. As this gentleman had no family, it was thought that Walter, who
had been named for him, would be the heir to his fortune. For this very
reason, Walter was too proud to pay him any court; indeed, he hardly
paid him proper respect and attention, and was generally silent and
reserved in his presence. Mr. Rodgers did not understand this manner; he
thought Walter sullen and cold, and, though he could not but see that
he was an honest, intelligent boy, he was not, on the whole, pleased
with him. But, like all other visitors, he was quite charmed with little
Charlie; and he had not been long gone from the village, before there
arrived from Boston a beautiful white pony, handsomely saddled and
bridled, "For Master Charles Harrison." In a letter to his sister, Mr.
Rodgers said, "Thinking that a daily ride may benefit my little invalid
nephew, I send a pony, which is both spirited and docile. I hope that
Charlie will accept it, with the kind wishes of 'Uncle Walter.'"
Both Mrs. Harrison and Charlie were pained that no present came for
Walter, and that he was scarcely mentioned in the letter; while, as for
Walter, he felt the old jealous feeling boiling up from his heart,
hotter than ever, and said some hard things, which he had better have
left unsaid.
"Why, brother," said Charlie, "the pony shall be as much yours as mine;
you may ride it every day."
"No, I won't!" answered Walter, angrily; "I never will mount it, as long
as I live. I wouldn't be so mean."
But Walter had little cause to be envious of his brother, who was quite
too weak to ride his pretty pony. A few rods only gave him a severe pain
in the side--so very delicate was poor Charlie.
This spring he seemed far worse than usual; he did not complain, but he
daily grew weak and languid, till finally he could no longer be about
the house.
One afternoon, when he came from school, Walter found Charlie sitting up
in his bed, writing; but he hid his paper and pencil under the pillow
when he saw his brother, and hastily wiped away some tears which were on
his cheek. That very night he grew much worse; a fever came on, and he
was quite delirious. All night long they watched over him, with great
anxiety, and during the next day, though he was more quiet, and slept
most of the time. When awake, he did not speak much, or seem to
recognize any one.
Just at sunset, Walter was sitting in his own chamber by the window,
with his face hidden in the curtains--for he was grieving for his gentle
brother, who was like to die--when his mother entered, holding a paper
in her hand. Walter saw that she had been weeping, as she said, "I found
this paper under little Charlie's pillow; you may read it, if you will."
Walter opened it, saw that it was in Charlie's handwriting, and read:--
_MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT._
_I leave to my dear mamma my gold-clasped Bible, my trunk, and all
my clothes, except my new green cloth roundabout, which I leave to
cousin John, because he likes it, and it just fits him. To my papa
I leave my pictures of Jesus Christ stilling the Tempest, and the
fight between the "Constitution" and "Guerriere," my seal of Hope
and the Anchor, and the "Voyages of Captain Cook." To my sister
Clara I leave my canaries, my pet squirrel, my flowers, and all my
fairy story-books. To my brother Walter I give the rest of my
library, my chessboard and men, my battledores and shuttlecock, my
rabbits, my dog, and my white pony; and when I am dead, I hope he
will believe I have loved him dearly._
_CHARLES HARRISON._
Walter wept bitterly over this will; but when he had grown calm, he
said, "May I go to him, mother?" "If you will promise not to disturb
him," she answered. Walter promised, and stole softly into the chamber,
where Charlie was now alone, sleeping quietly. He knelt down by the
bed-side, hid his face in the counterpane, and silently prayed God to
forgive all his sins, to give him a better heart, and to make his
brother well again. Suddenly he felt a soft hand laid on his head. He
looked up, and Charlie's mild blue eyes were smiling on him. "Come and
sit near me," he said; and Walter then lifted a chair to the bed-side,
and read to him out of the sacred Volume.
While they were thus engaged, they heard some unusual noise below, and
then their mother coming upstairs with some one who stepped a little
heavier. It was their father, returned from his longest and last sea
voyage! Now he promised to stay at home with them always.
[Illustration: WALTER AT HIS BROTHER'S BED-SIDE.]
The return of Captain Harrison did more than medicine to cure his little
son, who soon became stronger than he had ever been before.
One afternoon, when Charlie had been a fortnight about the house, it was
arranged that he should take a short ride on his white pony, soon after
breakfast the next day.
When Walter came down in the morning, his mother kissed him more
tenderly than usual, and his father, shaking hands with him heartily,
wished him many happy returns of the day. Walter looked as though he did
not know what to make of this, and his mother said, "Why, my son, is it
possible you have forgotten this is your birthday?"
"Ah, yes, mamma," he answered; "I only remembered that it was Charlie's
first day out."
"And so," said his father, "you are to give him a ride; pray, what are
_you_ to do?"
"Oh, I'll trot along by his side, on foot. I believe I can outrun that
pony now."
When breakfast was over, Walter helped his brother into the saddle, and
was arranging the bridle, when Charlie called out, joyfully, "Look
there, brother!" pointing with his riding-whip to another white pony,
somewhat larger than his own, standing on the other side of the yard.
Walter ran to it, took off a slip of paper which was pinned to the rein,
and read: "Will Walter, our first-born and beloved son, accept this
birthday gift from his parents?"
Walter laid his face against the slender, arching neck of his beautiful
pony, and burst into tears. But he was too happy to weep long; he soon
ran into the house, thanked and kissed his father and mother, ran out
again, mounted, and rode off with his brother.
They had a fine ride. They had many fine rides together in the years
that followed; for Charlie continued to improve, till he became quite
strong and vigorous. As for Walter, he always kept his robust health; he
did not grow to be handsome, but he became what is far better, truly
amiable and agreeable. Even Aunt Hannah Perkins grew to liking him at
last; and Uncle Walter Rogers, who sent him to college, has been heard
to declare that he shall leave him all his fortune--knowing that he will
not hoard it like a miser, nor waste it like a spend-thrift, but so use
it as to do a great deal of good, and make a great many people happy.
But I do not believe that the writing that gives to Walter Harrison a
large sum of money, land, and houses, will ever be so dear to him as a
little scrap of paper, which he keeps among his most valuable and sacred
things in his private desk, and on which he has written, "LITTLE
CHARLIE'S WILL."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWETH THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP]
The Student and Apprentice.
"How far is it from here to the sun, Jim?" asked Harman Lee of his
father's apprentice, James Wallace, in a tone of light raillery.
James Wallace, a boy of fourteen, turned his intelligent eyes upon the
son of his master, and after regarding him for a moment, replied,--
"I don't know, Harman. How far is it?"
There was something so honest and earnest in the tone of the boy, that,
much as Harman had felt at first disposed to sport with his ignorance,
he could not refrain from giving him a true answer. Still his contempt
for the ignorant apprentice was not to be concealed, and he replied,--
"Ninety-five millions of miles, you ignoramus!"
James did not retort; but repeating over in his mind the distance named,
fixed it indelibly upon his memory.