Part 3

"'Come, I can't stay here all day,' Mr. Jones remarked rather harshly, seeing that I hesitated. At the same moment, the image of my father rose distinctly before my mind, and I saw his eye fixed steadily and reprovingly upon me. With one desperate resolution, I uttered the word 'No!' and then turning, I ran away as fast as my feet would carry me. I cannot tell you how much relieved I felt when I was far beyond the reach of temptation.

"On the next morning, when I came down to breakfast, I was startled and surprised to learn that Mr. Jones had been drowned on the day before. Instead of returning in a few hours, as he had stated to me that he would, he remained out all the day. A sudden storm arose; his boat was capsized, and he drowned. I shuddered when I heard this sad and fatal accident related. That little word NO had, in all probability, saved my life.

"'I will now tell you, William,' my father said, turning to me, 'why I did not wish you to go with Mr. Jones. Of late, he had taken to drinking; and I had learned, within a few days, that whenever he went out on a fishing or gunning excursion, he took his bottle of spirits with him, and usually returned a good deal intoxicated. I could not trust you with such a man. I did not think it necessary to state this to you, for I was sure that I had only to express my wish that you would not accompany him, to insure your implicit obedience.'

"I felt keenly rebuked at this; and resolved never again to permit even the thought of disobedience to find a place in my mind. From that time, I have felt the value of the word NO; and have generally, ever since, been able to use it on all right occasions. It has saved me from many troubles. Often and often in life have I been urged to do things that my judgment told me were wrong: on such occasions, I always remembered my first temptation, and resolutely said--'No!'

"And now, my son," continued Mr. Howland, "do you understand the importance of the word _No_?"

"I think I do, father," replied Thomas. "But is there not danger of my using it too often, and thus becoming selfish in all my feelings, and consequently unwilling to render benefits to others?"

"Certainly there is, Thomas. The legitimate use of this word is to resist evil. To refuse to do a good action is wrong."

"If any one asks me, then, to do him a favour or kindness, I should not, 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.

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.

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.

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.