Front Cover
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Little Anna
 The Use of Learning
 The Secret of Order
 The Student and Apprentice
 The Story of a Little Boy, Who...
 How to be Happy
 The Tongue Bridle
 The Test of Courage
 The Tell-Tale
 The Ends of Life
 Try Again
 The Pet Lamb
 The Young Teacher
 Little George
 The Fairy Monitor
 Back Cover

Title: The story book for girls and boys
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00002766/00001
 Material Information
Title: The story book for girls and boys
Alternate Title: Arthur's story book for boys and girls
Physical Description: 141 p. : ill. ; 17 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Arthur, T. S ( Timothy Shay ), 1809-1885
Wm. J. Reynolds and Company ( Publisher )
Howlands (Firm) ( Engraver )
Publisher: W.J. Reynolds & Co.
Place of Publication: Boston
Publication Date: 1852, c1842
Copyright Date: 1842
Edition: 2nd ed. -- with illustrations.
Subject: Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1852   ( lcsh )
Printed boards (Binding) -- 1852   ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1852
Genre: Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Printed boards (Binding)   ( rbbin )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston
Statement of Responsibility: by T.S. Arthur.
General Note: Illustrations engraved by Howlands.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00002766
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002221321
oclc - 10858259
notis - ALG1542
 Related Items
Other version: Alternate version (PALMM)
PALMM Version

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front page 1
        Front page 2
        Front page 3
        Front page 4
        Front page 5
    Title Page
        Page iii
        Page iv
    Table of Contents
        Page v
        Page vi
        Page vii
        Page viii
    Little Anna
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
    The Use of Learning
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
    The Secret of Order
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
    The Student and Apprentice
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
    The Story of a Little Boy, Who Sometimes Got Angry
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
    How to be Happy
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
    The Tongue Bridle
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
    The Test of Courage
        Page 75
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
    The Tell-Tale
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
    The Ends of Life
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
    Try Again
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
    The Pet Lamb
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
    The Young Teacher
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
    Little George
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
    The Fairy Monitor
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
    Back Cover
        Page 144
        Page 145
Full Text








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Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year
1842, by
in the office of the clerri uo the district court of the
United States, in and for the traern
district of Pennsylvania.


Little Anna ...................... PA 9
The Use of Learning .................... 16
The Secret of Order..................... 23
The Student and Apprentice.............. 28
The Story of a Little Boy,who sometimes got
angry ............................... 43
How to be Happy ....................... 47
No ................................... 52
The Tongue Bridle...................... 62
The Test of Courage............ ........ 73
The Tell-Tale .......................... 83
The Ends of Life ....................... 93
Try Again............................. 104
Gratitude.............................. 115
The Pet Lamb......................... 120
The Young Teacher ................... 125
Little George ......................... 133
The Fairy Monitor ..................... 139

1i %A


THE stories in this book are, with one
or two exceptions, written so as to
address themselves to the understand-
ings of children and young persons who
have advanced far enough to be able to
discriminate, rationally, between a right
and a wrong action. Their design is,
to give pictures of real life, such as may
be seen every day; and in these pictures
to present that which is good and true
as something to be loved and desired;
and that which is evil and false as some-
thing to be shunned. They are intended,
also, to give to the young who are just
beginning to look about them, and to
reason on what they see, true principles
of action-such principles as will elevate
them out of mere selfishness, into a living

and active interest for all around them
These are the principles, the writer be-
lieves, that will make them, as men and
women, truly useful, and therefore truly
happy. For without usefulness to others,
from an earnest desire to be useful, there
can be no true happiness.
The present volume is designed as the
beginning of a series for children, by the
same writer, in which he will address
the young mind, in its different stages
of development, m various ways calcu-
lated to interest and instruct at the same
Philadelphia, Nov. e1t, 1842.


I WSH there wasn't any work, mother," said
little Anna, letting the handkerchief she was hem-
ming fall in her lap. "0 dear I wish I could
play all the time."
"You may go and play, dear, if you wish."
Anna's mother said, in a mild tone of voice.
"May I?" and Anna dropped her work, and
was out of the cottage door in a moment.
First she went into the garden, and amused her-
self by running about through the different walks,
and pulling a flower here and a flower there. Soon
tired of this, she sat down listlessly on a grass
plat, and spent nearly half an hour in looking for
a four-leaved clover. Unsuccessful in this, the
little girl next resorted to the swing under the apple
tree, which her father had made for her, and swung
herself for a good while.
"0 dear! I wish I had some one to play with
me!" she at length said, getting down from the
swing, tired with herself, and tired of everything
around her.
It was more than an hour since Anna had lain
aside her work, heartily tired of it; and now she
came back into the house, as heartily tired of play;
but still, with no disposition to resume her sewing.
"I wish father would come home," she said,
leaning upon the door, and fixing her eyes in the
direction from which he always returned in the

It isn't time for father to come home, Anna,"
her mother said, looking up from her sewing.
I know it aint," Anna replied. But then I
wish he would come home. Why don't he come
home sooner ?"
"He has to work in the field, you know, and
can't come home until his work is done."
"It's always work, work. I wish there wasn't
any work, mother !"
We should none of us be so happy without
work, my dear, as we are with it. It is while
engaged in useful employment, that we most truly
enjoy ourselves."
Anna could not understand this, and her mother
saw that she did not understand it. She therefore
asked her this simple question.
"Do you love any one, Anna ?"
0 yes!" said the little girl, turning away from
the cottage door, and coming up to the side of her
mother. "I love you, and I love father."
And we love you too, very much, Anna. Now,
in what way do we show our love to you, dear?"
O, in every way I" replied Anna, her face
brightening and her voice becoming animated.
"You buy and make me nice clothes, and get me
everything good to eat. You are always doing
something for Anna. That pretty frock you are
making is for me to wear to the church on next
It is because we love you, that we do all these
things for you. It is for your sake as well as for
mine that your father works in the fields all day
long; for by working, he makes the grain and


fruits grow, and thus earns money to buy the good
things he is always providing for us. Don't you
think that he is a great deal happier in working
thus for us, than he would be if he were to sit idle
at home, and see us suffering for comfortable food
and clothing ?"
0 yes. If he were to do so, neither he nor
any of us could be happy."
No, my child, that we would not. And now,
dear, can you not see that to work is sometimes
better than to play ?"
("0 yes, mother; for if you and father were to
play, instead of work, none of us would be so
comfortable and happy."
"No, my dear, that we would not. And now,
can you not see that it may be in the power of
even a little girl like you to do something, some-
times, for the comfort of others, and thus minister
to the happiness of others ?"
"How can I do that, mother ?"
"You are now ten years old, are you not I"
"Yes, mother."
"And have learned to sew very well ?"
"Yes, ma'am, I can hem a great deal neater
than Lucy Arnold."
I have much work to do, and sometimes when
I am not well, I feel very tired. Even now my
head is aching very badly."
"Is it, mother? 0, I am so sorry. I wish I
could do something to help your head."
"Would you be willing to do anything for me
if it was in your power ?"
Indeed mother I would !" and as the little girl
said this, the tears started to her eyes.



"You can hem very neatly 7"
yes, you know I can, mother."
"Your father is going over to see the minister
to-night, and that new pocket-handkerchief which
you were at work on must be hemmed and washed
out and ironed for him before he comes home. I
was in hopes that you would have got it done for
me, but you got tired of work so soon !"
I '11 do it for you, mother," Anna said in a
cheerful, earnest tone, sitting down quickly in her
little chair, and beginning to sew away as fast as
she could.
In about three-quarters of an hour she had
finished the handkerchief, and her mother, on look-
ing at it, said that it was done very neatly.
"And now, mother, must I wash and iron it for
father ?"
"Are you not tired of work by this time "
"O no. I am not tired at all."
"Very well, then, Anna, you may get the little
tub, and take a piece of the white soap and wash
it out for father."
Delighted with her task, 'Anna got the tub and
the soap, and was soon busy at work n7,,iin, wash-
ing the handkerchief. Al,'r hli' had passed it
through two waters, and rinsol it thoroughly, she
hung it up, and fastened it tightly on the line with
a clothe's-pin.
Shall I put an iron down to the fire, now,
mother?" she asked, coming in.
"Yes, my dear," her mother replied, much
pleased at the interest that had so suddenly arisen
in Anna's mind.



As soon as the iron was hot, and the handker-
chief dry, which was before her father came home,
Anna got the ironing blanket, and spread it out on
the kitchen table.
See mother, it is all dry," she said, soon after,
bringing in the handkerchief to her mother. May
I iron it now, for father ?"
Yes, you may iron it, but I must show you
how to try your iron, and how to get it perfectly
clean, so that you may neither burn nor soil the
new handkerchief."
So Anna's mother showed her all about how she
must prepare her iron, and then taught her the way
to iron out a handkerchief smoothly, and to fold it
up neatly. During the whole time the little girl
was very much delighted, as much, and indeed,
more so, than she had ever been while at play.
At last, just as the sun was going down,
Anna, who had been looking out for her father,
saw him coming down the lane, and away she
sprang to meet him.
0 father," she said, as soon as he had stooped
down and kissed her--" I have hemmed a hand.
kerchief for you, and washed and ironed it all by
Have you indeed 7" her father said, very much
pleased that his little girl felt so delighted because
she had done something for him. "I am very
glad to hear it, Anna; for if you had not done it,
the task would have fallen on your mother, and
she has a great deal to do, and is not very well.
For ten long years, she has been caring for you.
and doing all in her power to make you comfort.



able and happy; and this, often, when she has
been so sick that she could hardly hold up her
head. Now, do you not think that it is time for
you to be trying to do something for her?"
"0 yes, father, and I will work for her all day
I am glad to hear you say so, my dear. But
mother don't want you to work all the while for
her. Little girls like you must play, sometimes,
and mother would be very sorry if you never had
any time to play."
Anna did not reply to this, but said, after a short
"I don't think I shall ever care about play so
much, father. You don't know how tired I got of
play this afternoon."
Why did you get tired of play, dear?"
I don't know. But I did get tired. There was
nobody to play with me."
"And didn't you get tired of work, too?"
"0 yes. I was so tired of work that I said to
mother that I wished there wasn't any work."
"And then what did mother say ?"
"She told me that I might put aside my work
and go and play."
Well ?"
"But I soon got tired of play, and then I didn't
know what to do."
SWell ?"
"And then mother told me about your handker-
chief that had to be hemmed and washed out for
you by night, and how her head ached very badly.
When she said this, I felt as if I wanted to do it



very much, and so she let me, and I didn't feel
tired all the time."
"Do you know why you did not feel tired ?"
"No, father."
"It was because you felt that you were doing
something useful for your father and mother, and
there is no feeling so truly pleasant as that which
springs from the thought that you are doing good
to others at the same time that you have a desire
to do them good. Hereafter, Anna, try and think
much of your mother, and remember, that she has
to work all day long, and often at night, no matter
how ill she feels-and remember also, that every
hour that you work for her you are making her
burdens lighter."
Though a little girl, Anna understood her father
pretty well-at least, well enough to cause her,
ever after that, to work for her mother many hours
in each day. Notwithstanding this, she had as
much play as she wanted, and what was better, she
did not now get tired of play as she used to do, for
she ran through the garden, and amused herself
with her swing and play-house with a mind happy,
under the idea that she had been useful to her mo-
ther. After she had played as long as she wanted
to, she would go back to her mother, and ask if
there were not something else that she could do for
her. If there was, she went about it with delight.
Instead of complaining that she had work to do,
she now often said-
"0 mother, I am so glad that I can work for
you !"
There are now few happier girls than little Anna.



"I 'M tired of going to school," said Herbert
Allen to William Wheeler, the boy who sat next
to him. "I don't see any great use, for my part,
in studying geometry, and navigation, and survey-
ing, and mensuration, and the dozen other things
that I am expected to learn. They 'll never do me
any good; I'm not going to get my living as a sur-
veyor, or measure, or sea-captain."
"How are you going to get your living, Her-
bert?" his young friend asked, in a quiet tone, as
he looked up into his face.
Why, I'm going to learn a trade; or, at least,
my father says that I am."
"And so am I," replied William. And yet
my father wishes me to learn everything that I can ;
for he says that it will all be useful, some time or
other in my life."
I'm sure I can't see what use I'm ever going
to make, as a sadler, of algebra or surveying."
"Still, if we can't see it, Herbert, perhaps our
fathers can, for they are older and wiser than we
are. And we should endeavour to learn, simply
because they wish us to, even if, in everything that
we are expected to study, we do not see clearly the
"I can't feel so," Herbert replied, tossing his
head; and I don't believe that my father sees any
more clearly than I do, the use of all this."


You are wrong to talk so," his friend said, in
a serious tone. I would not think as you do for
the world. My father knows what is best for me
-and so does your father know what is best for
you; and if we do not confide in them, we will
surely go wrong."
"I'm not afraid," responded Herbert, closing
the book over which he had been poring, reluctantly,
for half-an-hour, in the vain effort to fix a lesson
on his unwilling memory; and taking some mar.
bles from his pocket, he began to amuse himself
with them, at the same time that he concealed them
from the teacher's observation.
William said no more, but turned to his lesson
with an earnest attention. The difference in the
characters of the two boys is too plainly indicated
in the brief conversation we have recorded, to need
further illustration. To their teacher it was evi-
dent, in numerous particulars in their conduct, their
habits and manners. William always recited his
lesson correctly, while Herbert never learned a
Stask well. One was always punctual at school-
the other a loiterer by the way. William's booles
were well taken care of-- Herbert's soiled, torn,
disfigured, and broken, ex' really and internally.
Thus they began life. 'he one obedient, indus-
trious, attentive to the pre epts of those who were
older and wiser, and will g to be guided by them;
the other, indolent and in. ined to follow the leai-
ings of his own will.
As men, at the age of hirty-five, we will again
present them to the reader. Mr. Wheeler is an
Intelligent merchant, in an active business-while



Mr. Allen is a journeyman mechanic, poor, in em.
barrassed circumstances, and possessing but a small
share of general information.
"How do you do, Mr. Allen ?" said the mer-
chant to the mechanic, about this time, as the lat-
ter entered the counting-room of the former. The
contrast in their appearance was very great. The
merchant was well-dressed, and had a cheerful
look-while the other was poorly clad, and seemed
troubled and dejected.
I can't say that I do very well, Mr. Wheeler,"
the mechanic replied, in a tone of despondency.
"Work is very dull, and wages low; and with so
large a family as I have, it is tough enough getting
along, under the best circumstances."
"I am really sorry to hear you say so, Mr. Al-
len," replied the merchant, in a kind tone. "How
much can you earn now?"
If I had steady work, I could make nine or
ten dollars a week. But our business is very bad;
the substitution of steam-engines on rail-roads, for
horses on turnpikes, has broken in seriously upon
the harness-making business. The consequence is,
that I do not average six dollars a week the year
"Is it possible that rai roads have wrought such
a change in your business ;."
"Yes-in the harnessamaking branch of it-
especially in large cities like this, where the heavy
wagon trade is almost entirely broken up."
Did you say that six dollars a week were all
that you could average ?"
"Yes, sir."


"How large is your family 1"
"I have five children, sir.
"Five children And only six dollars a week ?"
"That is all, sir. But six dollars will not sup.
port them, and J am, in consequence, going behind-
You ought to try to get into some other busi-
But I don't know any other."
The merchant mused for awhile, and then said,
Perhaps I can aid you in getting into some.
thing better. I am president of a newly-projected
railroad, and we are about putting on the line a
company of engineers, for the purpose of survey.
ing and locating the route. You studied surveying
and engineering at school at the same time that I
did, and I suppose have still a correct knowledge
of both; if so, I will use my influence to have you
appointed surveyor. The engineer is already cho-
sen, and at my desire he will give you all requisite
instruction until you revive your early knowledge
of these matters. The salary is one hundred dol-
lars a month."
A shadow still darker than that which before
rested there, fell upon the face of the mechanic.
Alas! sir," he said, I have not the slightest
knowledge of surveying. It is true, I studied it,
or rather, pretended to study it, at school-but it
made no permanent impression upon my mind. I
saw no use in it, then, and am now as ignorant of
surveying as if I had never taken a lesson on the


I am very sorry, Mr. Allen," the merchant
replied, in real concern. "If you were a good
accountant, I might, perhaps, get you into a store.
What is your capacity in this respect 1"
I ought to have been a good accountant, sir,
for I studied mathematics long enough; but I took
little interest in figures, and now, although I was
for many months, while at school, pretending to
study book-keeping, I am utterly incapable of tak.
ing charge of a set of books."
Such being the case, Mr. Allen, I really do not
know what I can do for you. But stay !-I am
about sending out an assorted cargo to Buenos
Ayres, and thence round to Callao, and want a
man to go as supercargo, who can speak the Span.
ish language. The captain will direct in the sales.
I remember that we studied Spanish together.
Would you be willing to leave your family and
go The wages will be one hundred dollars a
month ?"
I have forgotten all my Spanish, sir. I did not
see the use of it while at school, and therefore, it
made no impression on my mind."
The merchant, really concerned for the poor
mechanic, again thought of some way to serve him.
At length he said,
I can think of but one thing that you can do,
Mr. Allen, and that will not be much better than
your present employment. It is a service for which
ordinary labourers are employed-that of chain-
carrying to the surveyor on the proposed railroad

S"What is the wages, sir ?"
"Thirty-five dollars a month."
"And found ?"
"I will accept it, sir, thankfully," the man said.
SIt will be much better than my present employ-
S"Then make yourself ready at once, for the
company will start in a week."
I will be ready, sir," the poor man replied, and
then withdrew.
In a week the company of engineers started, and
Mr. Allen with them, as chain-carrier, when, had
he, as a boy, taken the advice of his parents and
friends, and stored up in his memory what they
wished him to learn, he might have filled the sur-
veyor's office, at more than double the wages paid
to him as a chain-carrier. Indeed, we cannot tell
how high a position of usefulness and profit he
Might have held, had he improved all the opportu-
;nities afforded him in youth. But he perceived the
use of learning too late.
The writer earnestly hopes that none of his
young readers will make the same discovery as
that Mr. Allen did when it is too late to reap any
real benefit. Children and youth cannot possibly
know as well as their parents, guardians, and
teachers, what is best for them. They should,
therefore, be obedient and willing to learn, even if
they cannot see what use learning will be to them.
Men who are in active contact with the world,
know, that the more extensive their knowledge on

all subjects, the more useful they can be to others;
and the higher and more important uses in society
they are fitted by education to perform, the greater
is the return to themselves in wealth and honour.
And therefore it is, that children are educated by
their parents. They know the use of learning,
and if children cannot see it, they should be obe.
dient, and learn, in the full confidence that .their
parents know better than they.




"EVERYTHING in confusion again, Fanny,"
said Mrs. Fairfield, coming into her daughter's
chamber. Not a chair in its place. Both closet-
doors open, and the clothes on the shelves tum-
bled. And see your mantel-piece!-the books on
Sit are disarranged, and your candlestick is just
ready to fall off. The shawl you wore out last
evening, instead of being folded up carefully, and
laid away in one of your drawers, is lying upon
the back of a chair, all rumpled and creased.
And to crown all, it is ten o'clock, and your bed
Sis not made."
"0, but I'll soon put all right again, ma,"
Fanny said. "I have been engaged all the morn.
ing over this letter. But I have just finished it,
and now I will clear up the room."
But Fanny," Mrs. Fairfield said, you know
That I have often told you that you should not
Sallow everything to get into this state of confu-
"I really don't know how I can help it, ma,"
Fanny replied. "I put things in their proper
Place every morning."
"Still, you are very late about it to-day."
"But I have been writing this letter, ma."
"You should never neglect one duty for another,
Fanny. You ought first to have put your room in
order, and then to have written your letter. It is

this putting off the doing of a thing, that makes
your room get into such a state of confusion. Do,
Fanny, correct this bad habit. You are now six-
teen years of age, and if you are not careful, it
will be confirmed, and you will be a sloven all
your life."
Fanny promised amendment, and her mother
went down stairs to attend to her domestic duties.
In less than a week, however, she found it neces-
sary to call her daughter's attention to her neglect-
ful and careless habits.
I am afraid, Fanny," she said, that you will
never make a tidy woman. And I am really sorry
for it, for when you come to have charge of a
house of your own, you will find this habit a
source of great inconvenience to you, if not of
direct unhappiness. When things are in confusion
around you, your mind will be in a like confusion;
and it is only the calm, quiet mind, that is truly
"Indeed, ma, I try," Fanny replied, seriously.
"But, somehow, or other, everything will get out
of its place. I am sure that I feel better when all
my things are properly arranged; for then I can
get what I want, when I have use for it and
besides, my mind, as you say, is calmer, and I feel
happier, when I have got my room and my draw-
ers arranged in an orderly condition. But, in a
little while it is all as bad as ever; and I am sure
I cannot tell how it gets so."
There is a way, Fanny, by which order might
be permanently sustained, even in your chamber,
and closets, and drawers. Caroline Mayfield, her

mother tells me, is very orderly in her habits.
Her books, and clothes, and everything that be.
longs to her, or is placed in her care, are always
to be found in their places."
"Yes, I have noticed that myself," Fanny said.
*'And I would give anything for her secret of
"No doubt she would impart it, Fanny."
S"Yes, I suppose she would, if she really under.
stood herself what the secret was. It is natural
for her to be orderly; and I presume, therefore,
That she has no system about it."
"Suppose you ask her, Fanny? I have no doubt
that she could help you a little."
S"Perhaps she could; and as I am going out
this morning, I will call and see her, and ask her
the question. It can do no harm any how."
And so, in the course of the morning, Fanny
called in to see Caroline Mayfield.
S"Everything as neat as wax," Fanny said, as
she entered Caroline's chamber, where the two
Young ladies retired, after chatting for a few
minutes in the parlour. "Do you know, Caro.
line, the object of my especial visit this morning 1"
No, Fanny; what is it?"
"Well, I don't think you would guess in a
month of Sundays."
"Perhaps not; for I am no very good hand at
guessing. So you will have to tell me."
"You will laugh I expect; but no matter. So
to begin, with a little honest commendation, I will
just say, that you are the neatest and most orderly
young lady of my acquaintance."

4" A pretty fair beginning, Fanny," her friend
responded, in a laughing tone.
"And an honest one into the bargain. Well,
in the second place, I am about the most disorder.
ly in my home arrangements of any person that I
know. And now I have come to you to get a
lesson in order and neatness. In a word, Caro-
line, I want your secret."
"Are you really in earnest, Fanny?"
Certainly. I never was more so in my life."
"Well, I don't know that I have any secret of
order. It all comes natural to me."
"But how do you keep things in their right
places ? I cannot, let me do my best."
"O, as to that, I always put a thing into its
right place when I am done using it; and so
nothing, in that case, gets out of order. How can
it ?"
Fanny paused a moment thoughtfully, and then
said with animation-
"That's it! I see it all now. You have given
me your secret. If everything that is taken up,
is returned to its proper place, how can there be
disorder, sure enough? Hereafter, I will try and
practise on your rule."
When Fanny went home, she told her mother
of the discovery she had made, at the same time
that she smiled at the simple truthfulness of the
There is no doubt of that being the true secret
of order, Fanny," her mother said; "and now
that you have found it out, I hope you will prac.
tise it steadily."

"I will try, mother," the daughter replied.
And she began by trying that very day. While
the precept was fresh in her mind, she got along
pretty well; but it was not many days before her
mother discovered her room in no very orderly
You have lost your secret, I fear, Fanny," she
said, as she looked in upon her.
O, no, ma! I have not lost, but only forgot-
ten it for a little while. But I will try to keep the
recollection of it as fresh as possible."
"It is worth all the trouble it may cost you,
Fanny, to acquire a habit of order. After this
habit is once formed, it will be like second nature
to you."
"I know it, ma; and am determined to per-
severe. And I hope you will remind me of every
little omission that may come under your notice."
Mrs. Fairfield promised that she would do so.
And whenever she found her daughter growing
remiss, would remind her of the secret she had
obtained from Caroline. Gradually, Fanny ac.
quired, by steady perseverance in adhering to her
rule of order, the habit of order itself, and then
she had no trouble; for it was as natural for her
to replace a thing properly, as it was for her to
take it up.



How far is it from here to the sun, Jim 1" ask.
ed Harman Lee of his father's apprentice, Jtmes
Wallace, in a tone of light raillery, intending by
the question to elicit some reply that would exhibit
the boy's ignorance.
James Wallace, a boy of fourteen, turned his
bright, 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.
On the same evening, after he had finished his
day's work, he obtained a small text book on astron-
omy, which belonged to Harman Lee, and went
up into his garret, with a candle, and there alone,
attempted to dive into the mysteries of that sublime
science. As he read, the earnestness of his atten-
tion fixed nearly every fact upon his mind. So



intent was he, that he perceived not the passage of
time, and was only called back to a consciousness
of where he was by the sudden sinking of the wick
of his candle into the melted mass of tallow that
had filled the cup of his candlestick. In another
moment he was in total darkness. The cry of the
watchman told him that the hours had flown until
it was past eleven o'clock.
Slowly undressing himself in his dark chamber,
his mind recurring with a strong interest to what
he had been reading, he laid himself down upon
his hard bed, and gave full play to his thoughts.
Hour after hour passed away, but he could not
sleep, so absorbed was he in reviewing the new
and wonderful things he had read. At last, wearied
nature gave way, and he fell off in a slumber, filled
with dreams of planets, moons, comets, and fixed
stars. On the next morning the apprentice boy
resumed his place at the work-bench with a new
feeling; and with this feeling was mingled one of
regret that he could not go to school as did his mas-
ter's son.
But I can study at night while he is asleep,"
he said to himself.
Just then Harman Lee came into the shop, and
approaching James, said, for the purpose of teas.
ing him,
"How big round is the earth, Jim 1"
"Twenty-five thousand miles," was the prompt
Harman looked surprised for a moment, and
then responded with a sneer-for he was not a kind.


hearted boy, but on the contrary, very selfish, and
disposed to injure rather than do good to others-
( O, dear I How wonderful wise you are! and
no doubt you can tell how many moons Jupiter
has ? Come, let's hear ?"
Jupiter has four moons," James answered, with
something of exultation in his tone.
And no doubt you can tell how many rings it
has ?"
Jupiter has no rings. Saturn has rings, and
Jupiter belts," James replied, in a decisive tone.
For a moment or two, Harman was silent with
surprise and mortification to think that his father's
apprentice, whom he esteemed so far below him,
should be possessed of knowledge equal to his, on
the points in reference to which he had chosen to
question him; and that he should be able to con-
vict him of an error into which he had purposely
I should like to know how long it is since you
became so wonderful wise!" Harman at length
said, with a sneer.
"Not very long," James replied, calmly. "I
have been reading one of your books on Astrono-
"Well, you're not going to have my books,
mister, I can tell you! Anyhow, I should like to
know what business you had to touch one of them ?
Let me catch you at it again, and see if I don't
cuff you soundly! You 'd better, a great deal, be
minding your work."
"But I didn't neglect my work, Harman. I read


at night, after I was done my work. And I didn't
hurt your book."
"I don't care, if you didn't hurt it. You are
not going to have my books, I can tell you. So
do you just let them alone."
Poor James's heart sunk in his bosom, at this
unexpected obstacle thrown in his way. He had
no money of his own to buy, and knew of no one
from whom he could borrow the book that had all
at once become necessary to his happiness.
Do, Harman," he said, appealingly, lend me
the book. I will take good care of it."
No, I won't. And don't you dare to touch it I"
was the angry reply.
James Wallace knew well enough the selfish dis-
position of his master's son, older than he by two
or three years, to be convinced that there was now
but little hope of his having the use of his books,
except by stealth. And from that his open and
honest principle revolted. All day he thought earn-
estly over the means whereby he should be able to
obtain a book on Astronomy, to quench the ardent
thirst that had been created in his mind. And night
came without any satisfactory answer being obtain-
ed to his earnest inquiries of his own thought.
He was learning the trade of a blind-maker.
Having been already an apprentice for two years,
and being industrious and intelligent, he had ac.
quired a readiness with tools -and much skill in
some parts of his trade. While sitting alone, after
he had finished his work for the day, his mind
searching about for some means whereby he could
get books, it occurred to him that he might, by


working in the evening, earn some money, and
with it buy such as he wanted. But in what man.
ner to turn his work into money, he knew not. It
finally occurred to him, that, in passing a house
near the shop, he frequently observed a pair of
window-blinds with faded colours.
Perhaps," he said to himself, if I would do
it cheap, they would let me paint and put new
hangings to their blinds."
The thought was scarcely suggested, when he
was on his feet moving towards the street. In a
few minutes he stood knocking at the door of the
house, which was soon opened.
Well, my little man, what do you want ?" was
the kind salutation of the individual who answered
the knock.
James felt confused, and stammered out,
"The hangings on your blinds are a good deal
"That's a very true remark, my little man,"
was the reply, made in an encouraging tone.
"And they want painting badly."
"Also very true," said the man with a good.
humoured smile, for he felt amused with the boy's
earnest manner and novelty of speech.
Wouldn't you like to have them painted and
new hangings put to them?" pursued James.
I don't know. It would certainly improve them
very much.'"
"0, yes, sir. They would look just like new.
And if you will let me do them, I will fix them all
up nice for you, cheap."


Will you, indeed ? But what is your name,
and where do you live?"
"My name is James Wallace, and I live with
Mr. Lee, the blind-maker."
Do you, indeed! Well, how much will you
charge for painting them, and putting on new
hangings 1"
I will do it for two dollars, sir. The hangings
and tassels will cost me three-quarters of a dollar,
and the paint and varnish a quarter more. And it
will take me two or three evenings, besides getting
up very early in the morning to work for Mr. Lee,
so that I can have time to paint and varnish them
when the sun shines."
"But will Mr. Lee let you do this?"
"I don't know, sir. But I will ask him."
"Very well, my little man. If Mr. Lee does
not object, I am willing."
James ran back to the house, and found Mr. Lee
standing in the door. Much to his delight, his re-
quest was granted. Four days from that time he
possessed a book of his own, and had a half dol-
lar with which to buy some other volume, when he
should have thoroughly mastered the contents of
that. Every night found him poring over this
book, and so soon as it was light enough to see he
was up and reading.
Of course, there was much in it that he could
not understand, and many terms that defied all his
efforts and comparisons of the context, to under.
stand. To help him in this difficulty, he purchased
with his remaining half dollar, at a second-hand
book stall, a dictionary. By the aid of this he


acquired the information he sought, much more
rapidly. But the more he read, the broader the
unexplored expanse of knowledge appeared to open
before him. He did not, however, give way to
feelings of discouragement, but steadily devoted
every evening, and an hour every morning, to stu-
dy; while, all through the day, his mind was pon-
dering over the things he had read, as his hands
were diligently employed in the labour assigned
It occurred, just at this time, that a number of
benevolent individuals established in the town where
he lived, one of those excellent institutions, an Ap-
prentices' Library. To this he at once applied, and
obtained the books he needed. Instead, however,
of resorting to the library for mere books of amuse-
ment, he borrowed only those from which he could
obtain the rudiments of learning, such as text books
of science, works on history, &c.
He early felt the necessity, from having read a
book on Astronomy, with a strong desire to master
its contents, for mathematical knowledge; and in
the effort to acquire this, he commenced studying
-for he had no preceptor to guide him-a work
on Geometry. In working out problems, he used
a pair of shop compasses, with a pointed quill upon
one of the feet. And thus, all alone in his garret,
frequently until midnight-none dreaming of his
devotion to the acquirement of knowledge-did the
poor apprentice boy lay the foundation of future
eminence and usefulness. We cannot trace his
course, step by step, through a long series of seven
years, though it would afford many lessons of per-

severance and triumph over almost insurmountable
difficulties. But at twenty-one he was master of
his trade, and what was more, had laid up a vast
amount of general and scientific information. He
was well read in history; had studied thoroughly
the science of Astronomy, for which he ever re-
tained a lively affection; was familiar with mathe-
matical principles, and could readily solve the most
difficult Geometrical and Algebraic problems. His
Geographical knowledge was minute; and to this
he added tolerably correct information in regard to
the manners and customs of different nations. To
natural history he had also given much attention.
But, with all his varied acquirements, James Wal.
lace felt, on attaining the age of manhood, that he
knew comparatively but little.
Let us turn now, for a few moments, to mark
the progress which the young student, in one of
the best seminaries in his native city, and after.
wards at college, had made. Like too many
tradesmen, whose honest industry and steady per.
severance have gained them a competence, Mr. Lee
felt indisposed to give his son a trade, or to subject
him to the same restraints and discipline in youth
to which he had been subjected. He felt ambi-
tious for him, and determined to educate him for
one of the learned professions. To this end, he
sent him to school early, and provided for him the
very best of instruction.
The idea that he was to be a lawyer, or a doc.
tor, soon took possession of the mind of Harman,
and this caused him to feel contempt for other boys
who were merely designed for trades, or store-

Like too many others, he had no love of learn.
ing, nor any right appreciation of its legitimate
uses. To be a lawyer, he thought would be much
more honourable, than to be a mere mechanic;
and for this reason alone, so far as he had any
thoughts on the subject, did he desire to be a law-
yer. As for James Wallace, he, as the poor illiter.
ate apprentice of his father, was most heartily
despised, and never treated by Harman with the
smallest degree of kind consideration.
At the age of eighteen, he was sent away to
one of the Eastern Universities, and there remain-
ed, except during the semi-annual vacations, until
he was twenty-one years of age; when he gradu-
ated and came home with the honorary title of A.
B. At this time James Wallace was between
seventeen and eighteen years of age, somewhat
rough in his appearance, but with a sound mind in
a sound body. Although, each day he regularly
toiled at the work-bench, he as regularly turned
to his books when evening released him from
labour, and was up at the peep of dawn, to lay the
first offerings of his mind upon the shrine of learn.
ing. But all this devotion to the acquirement of
knowledge, won for him no sympathy, no honour-
able estimation from his master's son. He despised
these patient, persevering efforts, as much as he
despised his condition as an apprentice to a trade.
But it was not many years before others began to
perceive the contrast between them, although on
the very day that James completed his term of
apprenticeship, Harman was admitted to the bar.
The one completed his education so far as gen


eral knowledge, and a rigid discipline of mind was
concerned, when he left college. The other be-
came more really the student, when the broader
and brighter light of rationality shone clearly on
his pathway, as he passed the threshold of man-
hood. James still continued to work at his trade,
but not for so many hours each day, as while be
was an apprentice. He was a good and fast work.
man, and could readily earn all that he required
for his support in six or eight hours of every
twenty-four. Eight hours were regularly devoted
to study. From some cause, he determined that
he would make law his profession. To the ac-
quirement of a knowledge of legal matters, there-
fore, he bent all the energies of a well disciplined,
and active, comprehensive mind. Two years
passed in an untiring devotion to the studies he
had assigned himself, and then he made applica-
tion for admission to the bar.
"Who were admitted yesterday?" asked Har-
man Lee, the day after Wallace had passed his
examination, addressing a fellow-member of the
"Some half dozen, and among them a sturdy
young fellow, that nobody ever heard of before."
'' Indeed I Well, what kind of an examination
did he make."
"An excellent one. The Judges tried their best
with him, but he seemed furnished at every point.
He is said to be a young mechanic, who has thus
qualified himself in the time that he could spare
from the labours of his handicraft, by which he
has supported himself."


A mechanic! Poh The whole court-room
will smell of leather, or linseed oil, I suppose, after
this. Did you learn his name?"
"James Wallace, I believe he is called."
"James Wallace! Are you sure?"
"Yes, that was it. Do you know him? You
look sufficiently surprised to know him twice
"My father had an apprentice by that name,
who affected to be very fond of books. But sure.
ly it can't be he."
"I am sure I don't know. But here comes a
client for you, I suppose."
As the latter spoke, a man entered the office,
and asked for Mr. Lee.
"That is my name, sir," said Lee, bowing.
Take a chair."
The stranger seated himself, and after a mo.
ment's pause, said,
"I wish you to attend a case for me. I have
been sued this morning, as an executor of an
estate, and the claim set up is a very important
The whole case was then stated with an exhibit.
tion of various documents. After Lee had come
to understand fully its merits, he asked who was
the lawyer of the claimants.
"A young fellow, only admitted yesterday, by
the name of Wallace. I am told he has it in
charge. He was, however, consulted some months
ago, and his services retained, to become active at
this time."


Lee turned to his friend, and remarked-
So it seems that I am doomed first to come in
contact with this young mechanic. He is certain-
ly quick on the trigger. Only admitted yesterday,
and to-day pushing on a most important suit. But
I '1 cool him off, I'm thinking."
You must do your best, sir, for there is much
at stake," said the client.
"Rely upon that. But don't give yourself a
moment's uneasiness. A few years' experience at
the bar, is always enough to set aside your new
I wonder if it can be my father's old appren-
tice ?" the young lawyer remarked, after his client
had gone.
"It's as likely as not," his friend said. "But
wouldn't it be a good joke, if he gained the suit
over you !"
"Never fear that 1"
"Well, we shall see I" laughingly exclaimed
his friend.
On the next day, James Wallace took his seat
among the members of the bar, and marked with
a keen interest, and an air of intelligence, all that
passed. One or two of the lawyers noticed him
kindly, but the majority, Lee among them, regard-
ed him with coldness and distance. But nothing
of this affected him, if, indeed, he noticed it at all.
The cause in which he had been retained, and
which proved to be the first in which he took an
active and prominent position in the court-room,
came up within a week, for all parties interested
in the result, were anxious to come to trial; and,


therefore, no legal obstacles were thrown in the
There was a profound silence, and a marked
attention, and interest, when the young stranger
arose in the court-room, to open the case. A
smile of contempt, as he did so, curled the lip of
Harman Lee, but Wallace saw it not. The pro.
eminent points of the case were presented in plain
but concise language, and a few remarks bearing
upon the merits of the case being made, the young
lawyer took his seat, and gave room for the de.
fendents counsel, to define his position.
Instantly Harman Lee was on his feet, and be.
gan referring to the points presented by his very
learned brother," in a flippant, contemptuous man.
ner. There were those present who marked the
light that kindled in the eye of Wallace, and the
flash that passed over his countenance at the first
contemptuous word and tone that were uttered by
his antagonist at the bar. These soon gave place
to attention, and an air of conscious power. Once
on his feet, with so flimsy a position to tear into
tatters, as that which his learned brother" had
presented, Lee seemed never to grow tired of the
tearing process. Nearly an hour had passed away
when he resumed his seat with a look of exultation,
which was followed by a pitying and contemptuous
smile, as Wallace again slowly arose.
Ten minutes, however, had not passed, when
that smile had changed to a look of surprise, mor-
tification, and alarm, all blended into a single ex-
pression. The young lawyer's maiden-speech
showed him to be a man of calm, deep, systematic


thought-well. skilled in points of law, and in au.
thorities; and more than all, a lawyer of practical
and comprehensive views. When he sat down no
important point in the case had been left untouch-
ed, and none that had been touched, required fur-
ther elucidation.
Lee followed briefly, in a vain attempt to torture
his language, and break down his positions. But
he felt that he was contending with weapons whose
edges were turned at every blow. When he took
his seat again, Wallace merely remarked, that he
was prepared, without further argument, to submit
the case to the court.
The case was accordingly submitted, and a de-
cision unhesitatingly made in favour of the plain-
tiffs, or Wallace's clients.
From that hour, James Wallace tool his true
place. The despised apprentice became the able
and profound lawyer, and was so esteemed for
real talent and real moral worth, which, when
combined, ever place their possessor in his true
Ten years from that day, Wallace was elevated
to the Bench, while Lee remained a second-rate
lawyer, and never rose above that grade.
In the histories of these two persons is seen the
difference between simply receiving an education,
as it is called, and self-education. Most eminent
men are self-educated men. This fact every stu-
dent and every humble apprentice, with limited
advantages, should bear in mind. It should infuse
new life into the studies of the one, and inspire the
other with a determination to imbue his mind with


knowledge. The education that a boy receives at
colleges and seminaries, does not make him a
learned man. He has only acquired the rudiments
of knowledge. Beyond these he must go- he
must continue ever after a student-or others will
leave him in the rear; others of humbler means
and fewer opportunities; the apprentice of the
handicraftsman, for instance, whose few hours of
devotion to study, from a genuine love of learning,
have given him a taste and a habit that remain
wvth him in all after time.



THaEs was once a little boy, named Jonas
White, who had a very bad temper. A very tri-
fling thing would frequently make him get so angry
that he hardly knew what he was saying or do-
His father often talked to him, and sometimes
had to punish him for giving way to this very
wicked disposition; but as the little boy would
make no effort to conquer it, he grew worse, in-
stead of better.
One day Jonas came home from school, and
found that his little sister Emma had some of his
playthings. He was not a very good boy; for he
did not like to see his sister enjoying herself with
anything that belonged to him; and this was be.
cause he was selfish.
Give me my playthings 1" he cried out, in ant
angry tone of voice, as soon as he saw what Emma
was doing
let me play with them, brother, won't yeoum
Emma asked.
No, I will not 1" the unkind boy said. And
I'd like to know what business you had to.touch
my things !"
And so saying, he jerked away the playthings
with which Emma was amusing herself, and not

content with this, his anger so overcame him, that
he pushed her away so suddenly, that she fell, and
struck her head with a dreadful blow against a
large piece of wood that lay upon the floor.
Poor little Emma was so stunned with the blow,
that she lay insensible, while the blood flowed out
from a wound in her head.
In an instant the anger of Jonas disappeared,
and he ran to his sister, and endeavoured to lift
her up. But when he saw the blood running out,
and trickling down her beautiful dark hair, form-
ing already a pool upon the floor, he became sick
at heart with alarm and remorse for what he had
His cries of terror brought his mother instantly
into the room. She was dreadfully frightened
when she saw Emma lying upon the floor; and
still more so, when she perceived the deep wound
in her head from which the blood was flowing very
"I did it mother! I did it! I pushed her over.
But I didn't mean to hurt her !" Jonas said, burst-
ing into tears.
When his mother heard this, she felt sick, and
faint; for she was in bad health, and was very
What if fe has killed her?" she said to herself,
aa she took Emma in her arms, and laid her upon
her own bed.
This thought distressed her exceedingly. She
knew Jonas had a quick, bad temper, and the
thought, that in a fit of passion he had killed his
sister, was to her a terrible one.

A physician was sent for, who had to cut much
of Emma's beautiful hair away, to get at the
wound, which he then sewed up. The pain which
this produced brought back the little girl to con.
sciousness, and she cried very bitterly while the
doctor continued dressing the wound.
Jonas, whose father made him stay in the room
all the while that the doctor was sewing up and
dressing his sister's head, suffered more than can
be described. He deeply repented of what he had
done, and resolved that he would try very hard to
.conquer his unhappy temper.
His father did not punish him, for he knew that
punishment would do but little good, if the sad
condition of his sister did not produce a change.
But he told him about a boy that lived in the same
town, several years before, who struck his little
brother in anger, and killed him.
I remember it very well," he said, "and it
was a dreadful time for his poor mother. Indeed,
I have always thought that it was the cause of her
death, for she never seemed herself again, and was
carried to her grave in two months afterwards.
Her son has grown up to be a man, and still lives
in town. But he never seems happy, and nothing
goes well with him. He walks about with his
eyes cast down, and associates with no one, ex-
cept so far as his business requires. He seems,
and I have no doubt is, a very wretched man; for
how can he ever forget that dreadful event.
And suppose, Jonas, you had killed your sis-
ter I The very thought is awful! I have no doubt
but that it would have broken your mother's heart.

Try then, to curb your bad temper, or some dread.
ful thing, I am afraid, will be the consequence."
Jonas cried bitterly, and determined that he
would never get angry with his sister again. As
soon as she got well enough to look about her, and
be amused with anything, he brought his toys and
playthings, and spread them out before her on the
bed, and told her that they were all her's whenever
she wanted to play with them.
He was very much gratified when he saw that
Emma was pleased, and would pick up first one
little thing and then another, and seem to enjoy
the sight of them; much more really pleased than
ever he was while selfishly keeping them to him-
After awhile Emma got well again, and was
able to come down stairs and go about as usual.
But Jonas never could get angry with her as be-
fore. If he felt inclined to be so, he thought
instantly about how near he had been to killing
her, and this always drove all angry feelings away
on the instant. And in trying to correct this bad
habit, he learned to be kinder and less selfish to-
wards Emma. He would share his playthings
with her, and feel pleasure in her delight.
Still, he often felt his anger rising, and some.
times it would break out, when others opposed
him, but he had learned to think about this indul-
gence of anger as wrong, and to fear its con.
sequences. By trying to keep it down, he finally
gained some power over it, and when he at last
grew up to be a man, he was able by watchfulness
and a trust in divine more than human strength,
to hold it always in check.


"0, 1 am so tired I wish I had something to
do Jane Thompson said to her mother one day.
"Then why don't you read ?" asked her mo.
their. You have books."
I 'm tired of reading, and I'm tired of every.
You are a very unhappy girl, Jane," her mo-
ther said.
"If I am, I can't help it."
"But I am sure you could help it, if you would
try, Jane."
"How can I help it, mother ? I am sure I
should like very much to know."
By trying to be useful to others, my daughter."
"So you have said before. But I cannot see
any thing so very pleasant in working for others.
Nobody thinks of being useful to me."
"That is a very selfish thought, Jane," her
mother said, in a serious tone, "and the feeling
that prompted that thought, is the cause of all your
unhappiness of mind. You must cease to think
only of yourself, and have some kind regard for
others, or you will never be happy."
Jane did not understand her mother, and there.
fore could see no force in what she said. And her
mother perceived this, and so said no more then
upon the subject.

About an hour afterwards she came into the
room, where Jane sat idle and moping, and said,
"Come, Jane, I want you to walk out with me."
I don't care much about going, mother," Jane
replied. "And if you are willing, would rather
stay at home."
"But I wish you to go with me, Jane; so come,
dress yourself as quickly as you can, for you know
it never takes me long to get ready."
Jane reluctantly obeyed, and, when dressed,
went out with her mother. She felt listless and
unhappy, for her mind was not employed upon
any subject of interest.
After walking for some ten or fifteen minutes,
her mother stopped at a low frame building, and
knocked at the door.
"What are you going in there for ?" Jane asked
in surprise.
"I want to see a poor sick woman who lives
here," her mother said, in a quiet tone.
I wish you had let me staid at home !"-
But before Jane could say any more, the knock
was answered by a little girl about ten years old,
whose uncombed head, soiled clothes and skin,
showed that she needed the care of a mother's
willing heart and ready hand.
The little girl conducted them into a back room,
in which were a few scanty pieces of furniture and
a bed, upon which was propped up with pillows a
sick woman, engaged in sewing. Her face was
pale and thin, and her eyes, bright and glistening,
were sunk far into the head. The work dropped
from her hand, as her unexpected visitors entered,


and then she looked up earnestly into the face of
the elder of the two.
"You do not seem able to work, ma'am," Jane's
mother said, advancing to the bed-side, and taking
the small thin hand that was offered her.
I am not very able, madam," she replied in a
feeble tone. U But I have to do something."
SIs there no one to provide any thing for you,
in your feeble state ?" asked her visited.
"No one, madam," was the simple, and to
Jane's mother, affecting response.
And how many hours through the day do you
have to sit up in bed and sew T"
All day, when I can, ma'am. And sometimes
a good many hours at night. But I wouldn't care
so much for that, if I was able to go about the
room a little, and attend more to my child, who is,
indeed, sadly neglected." And the tears came into
the mother's eyes, as she cast a look of tenderness
upon her little girl.
Jane saw that look, and noted the sad expression
of the poor woman's voice, and both touched her
Cannot we do something for them T" she whis.
"We must try," was the low response.
SI heard of your being ill, this morning," Jane's
mother said, "and have come over to see if I can.
do any thing for you. You must be relieved from
your constant labour, for it is too much for your
feeble frame. As soon as 1 return home, I will send,
you over as much food as you and your little girl
wll require for several days, and my daughter here


will be willing, I think, to come in to see you now
and then, and give you such little assistance as
you may require. Will you not, Jane ?"
"0 yes, mother. I will come most cheerfully."
And the tone of her voice, and expression of her
face showed that she was in earnest.
The poor woman could not find words to speak
out her true feelings, but she looked her gratitude.
After Jane and her mother had left this miser-
able tenement, the former said,
0, mother, it makes my heart ache to think of
that poor woman and her child I How can she
possibly get bread to eat, by the work of her own
hands, and she almost dying."
The sympathy thus expressed pleased her mo-
ther very much, and she encouraged the good
impression. After she had returned home, she
prepared a number of articles of food, such as she
thought were required, and also a few delicacies
that she knew would be grateful to the sick woman.
These she despatched by a servant. About half
an hour after, Jane, with a small bundle in her
hand, went out alone, and turned her steps towards
the cheerless hovel she had but a short time before
visited. In this bundle was a change of clothing
for the invalid, which Jane assisted her to put on.
And then she made up her bed for her, and beat
up the pillows, and fixed her as comfortable as
Then she took the little girl, and washed her,
and combed her hair, and put on a clean frock
that her mother told her she would find in a
closet. After this she arranged every thing in the

room in prder, and swept up the floor. And still
further, went to work and got a nice cup of tea for
the sick woman.
It would have done the heart of any one good to
have seen how full of delight and gratitude was the
countenance of the sick woman. Jane had never
felt so happy in her life.
When she came home, her mother remarked her
light step and cheerful air.
"You have at last learned how to be happy,
Jane," she said. The secret lies in our endeavour-
ing to be useful to others. All our unhappiness
springs from some indulgence of selfishness, and
all our true feelings of happiness, from that bene-
volence which prompts us to regard others."
Jane saw and felt the force of her mother's
remark, and never forgot it. The sick woman, in
whom she had become interested, afforded ample
scope for the exercise of her newly awakened feel-
ings of benevolence, and thus they gained strength,
and grew into principles of action. May every
one who reads this little story, find the true secret
of happiness 1


"THERn is a word, my sea, a very little word,
in the English language, the right use of which it
is all-important that you should learn," Mr. How.
land said to his son Thomas, who was about leav-
ing the paternal roof for a residence in a neigh.
bouring city, never again, perchance, to make onm
of the little circle that had so long gathered in the
family homestead.
"And what word is that, father ? Thons
"It is the little word No, my son."
"And why does so much importance attach to'
that word, father '"
Perhaps I can make you understand the ree*
son much better if I relate an incident that occur-
red when I was a boy. I remember it as distinct.
ly as if it had taken place but yesterday, although
thirty years have since passed. There was a
neighbour of my father's, who was very fond of
gunning and fishing. On several occasions, I had
accompanied him, and had enjoyed myself very
much. One day, my father said to me,
"'William, I do not wish you to go into the
woods or on the water again with Mr. Jones.'
"'Why not, father I asked, for I had become
so fond of going with him, that to be denied the
pleasure was a real privation.



*' I have good reasons for not wishing you to
go, William,' my father replied, but do not want
to give them now. I hope it is allsufficient for
you, that your father easires you not to accompany
Mr. Jones again.'
"I could not understand why my father laid
upon me this prohibition ; and, as I desired very
much to go, I did not feel satisfied in my obedience.
On the next day, as I was walking along the road,
I met Mr. Jones, with his fishing-rod on his
shoulder, and his basket in his hand.
Ah, William! you are the very one that I
wish to see,' said Mr. Jones, smiling. I am go.
ing out this morning, and want company. We
shall have a beautiful day.
"' But my father told me yesterday,' I replied,
*that he did not wish me to go out with you.'
"* And why not, pray asked Mr. Jones.
"' I am sure that I do not know,' I said; 'but
indeed, I should like to go very much.'
"' O, never mind; come along,' he said. Your
father will never know it.'
'Yes, but I am afraid that he will,' I replied,
thinking more of my father's displeasure than of
the evil of disobedience.
"' There is no danger at all of that. We will
he home again long before dinner-time.'
"I hesitated, and he urged; an finally, I moved
the way that he was going, and had proceeded a
few hundred yards, when I stopped, and said-
*' I don't like to go, Mr. JoneR'
"'Nonsense, William! Them is no harm in

54 NO.
fishing, I am sure. I have often been out with
your father, myself.'
"Much as I felt inclined to go, still I hesitated;
for I could not fully make up my mind to disobey
my father. At length, he said-
"' I can't wait here for you, William. Come
along, or go back. Say yes, or no.'
This was the decisive moment. I was to make
up my mind, and fix my determination in one way
or the other. I was to say yes or No.
"' 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, 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 be-
fore. 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
"' 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 when.
ever he went out on a fishing or gunning excur.
sion, 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 obedi-
"I felt keenly rebuked at this; and resolved
never again to permit even the thought of disobe.
dience 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-
"And now, my son," continued Mr. Howland,
"do you understand the importance of the word
No ?"
"I think I do, father," Thomas replied. "But
is there not danger of my using it too often, and
thus becoming selfish in all my feelings, and con.
sequently, 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,



4 NO.
fishing, I am sure. I have often been out with
your father, myself.'
"Much as I felt inclined to go, still I hesitated;
for I could not fully make up my mind to disobey
my father. At length, he said-
"' I can't wait here for you, William. Come
along, or go back. Say yes, or no.'
"This was the decisive moment. I was to make
up my mind, and fix my determination in one way
or the other. I was to say yes or No.
(' 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, 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 be-
fore. 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
"' 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 when.
ever he went out on a fishing or gunning excur.
sion, 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 obedi-
"I felt keenly rebuked at this; and resolved
never again to permit even the thought of disobe.
dience 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-
"And now, my son," continued Mr. Howland,
"do you understand the importance of the word
"I think I do, father," Thomas replied. "But
is there not danger of my using it too often, and
thus becoming selfish in all my feelings, and con-
sequently, 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,



"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."
But the difficulty, I feel, will be for me to dis-
criminate. When I am urged to do something by
one whom I esteem, my regard for him, or my
desire to render him an obligation, will be so strong
as to obscure my judgment.
"A consciousness of this weakness in your
character, Thomas, should put you upon your
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 conscious-
ness 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 affec-
tions 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

neighboring 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, unfortun.
ately, 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.
His growing influence over Thomas Howland
was 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 ex.
cursions 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 precept, Re-
member the Sabbath-day, &c., 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



58 NO.
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 dominos
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 con.
sidered 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 introduc-
tion 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 forty dollars, 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
"Come, let us have a game of cards," the friend
at last remarked, during a pause in the conversa.
tion; at the same time going to his trunk and
producing a pack of cards.

No objection," responded Boyd.
"You 'll take a hand, of course ?" the new friend
said, looking at Thomas Howland.
But Thomas said that he knew nothing of cards.
"O 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 half-dollar was
laid down by each of the young men, who looked
towards Thomas as they did so.
"I cannot play for money," he said, colouring;
for he felt really ashamed to acknowledge his
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 1 Isn't your money your own ? And
pray what harm 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?" Boyd said. "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 half-dollar, and we'll promise to
pay you back all you lose, if you wish it, until you
acquire some skill."
But Thomas felt reluctant and hesitated. Never-
theless, he was debating the matter in his mind



seriously, and every moment that reluctance was
growing weaker.
"Will you play?" Boyd asked in a decided
ton, breaking in upon this debate.
( I had rather not," Thomas replied, attempting
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 1"
I am afraid that it is not right."
This was answered by a loud laugh from his
two friends, which touched Thomas a good deal,
aod made him feel more ashamed of the scruples
that held him back from entering into the temp-
Come, down with your stake, Howland!"
Boyd said, 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
"Will you play, or not I" the friend of Boyd
now said, with something of impatience in his tone.
Say yes, or no."
For a moment the mind of Thomas became con-
fused 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
No i" he said, firmly and decidedly.
Both of his companions looked disappointed and
( What did you bring him her for?" he heard



NO. 61
Boyd's companion say to him in an under tone,
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, ao, had saved him. The
scheme was, to win from him his forty dollars, 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
This incident roused Thomas Howland to a dis-
tinct 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 I" 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 aAer.
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


WAT is the trouble now ?" asked Mrs. Ellis,
coming into the room where her daughter Maria
sat weeping bitterly.
"That will tell you," replied Maria, drying her
tears and handing her mother an open letter. Mrs.
Ellis read as follows:
Miss :-I have just learned from Harriet Wil.
son that you made rather free with my name yes.
terday. Now I would just like to know whether
you did, or did not say, that you thought me over
and above conceited; and if you did, what you
mean by it? I am not used to be talked about in
that way. ANN HARRIS.
"And did you say so to Harriet Wilson ?" ask-
ed Mrs. Ellis.
"Yes, I did, and now how to get out of it, I am
sure I cannot tell. I never dreamed that Harriet
was such a tattler, or I'd have been close enough
with her."
You cannot deny it of course."
"No, not up and down, but then, ma, it will
never do in the world to come right out and ac.
knowledge it point blank. I 'd make Ann Harris
an enemy all my life."
How very unguarded you are, Maria 1 This is


the third or fourth time you have brought your.
self into difficulty by your free way of talking to
every one."
"I know I am imprudent, ma, sometimes; but
then I never can believe that young ladies with
whom I am intimate will act so meanly as to be.
come tattlers and mischief-makers, until it is too
late to make caution of any avail. But I 'm done
with Harriet Wilson; I 'e broken off my intimacy
with several girls already for repeating what I have
said; and I '11 do the same with her."
"It would be much better, Maria," said her
mother, "if you would put a bridle on your
tongue; you would save yourself and others many
unkind thoughts and painful feelings."
"I know I would, ma, but then I can't always
be watching myself. It's impossible; I try often,
but it's no use."
If you will persevere in trying, you will, in
time, gain such a control over yourself as to keep
you out of these unpleasant difficulties."
Perhaps I might; but what shall I do now I
Ann has pinned me right down: and there is no
way of getting off, unless I say that Harriet must
have misunderstood me."
"That would be prevarication, Maria, if not
something worse."
"Yes, it would; for I remember well enough
that I said exactly what she has reported."
And do you seriously think, Maria, that Ann
is conceited ?"
"Yes, ma, I do, or I would not have said so."
"(I think as you do, Maria, but then, there is


to me nothing offensive in the good opinion she
ueems to entertain of herself."
"No, there is not; and had I not been some-
what ill-natured at the time, I never should have
alluded to it."
I suspected as much," Mrs. Ellis said. And
under the circumstances, I am of opinion that your
best way is frankly to own that you did say what
has been reported, and why you said it. Such an
honest confession will do you both good."
I don't know, ma."
"Why do you doubt t"
"I don't believe that such an explanation.will
soften her angry feelings at all."
I am much inclined to think that you feel a
reluctance on your own account to pursue this
Well, perhaps I do," Maria said, after a
You are evidently in the wrong, Maria, and
a consciousness of this clouds your perception of
the true way to act. Now, if you will let me
write your reply to Ann's note, I think all can be
brought around fair again."
You are certainly at liberty to do so, ma: but
still, I should like to reserve the power of sending
or withholding it, as it seems best to me. Is this
asking too much ?"
O, no, I would rather not have you send a re-
ply, unless you could see clearly that it was the
right one."
Then write me an answer, ma."
In the course of the day Mrs. Ellis prepared the


following draft of a reply to Ann's letter of com-
plaint, and submitted it to Maria.
"Dear Ann:- I received your note complain.
ing that I had, according- to report, said unkind
things of you. I cannot deny, that in a moment
of ill-nature, I was tempted to say that I thought
you somewhat conceited; and to be frank with
you, your manners at times indicate this fault or
peculiarity of character. But it is not half so bad
a fault as the one I indulged in when I alluded to
it. Now, as I have confessed that I have a trait
in my disposition much worse than the one I
alluded to in yours, I must hope that you will for.
give me. Ever yours,
"What do you think of that?" Mrs. Ellis said,
after she had finished reading the proposed reply.
It 's not exactly such a letter as I should have
written, but I believe it's a much better one: so I
will send it."
1 don't think it can do any harm, and it tells
the whole truth, does it not 7"
Yes it does, and in pretty plain terms too,"
Maria said smiling.
The letter was accordingly sent, and in the
course of a couple of hours, another was received
from Ann Harris. It read thus:

Dear Maria: -Your answer to my note has
been received, and it has completely dispelled my
unkind feelings. Let us forget the unpleasant


incidents, and be the same to each other that we
have so long been; neither of us is perfect, there-
fore we must learn to bear and forbear. When
I see Harriet Wilson again, I shall talk to her
about her fondness for retailing ill news.
Yours truly, ANN Hamis."

"You have helped me to get back a friend that
I always loved, dear mother Maria said, a good
deal moved, as she finished reading the note. I
shall try hereafter to be more guarded than I have
been. I must bridle my tongue as you say, mo-
ther, at least unless I am pretty certain about the
company I am in."
"The best tongue bridle, Maria," Mrs. Ellis
replied, is that which charitable feelings and
charitable thoughts give. If your restraints are
merely external, you will ever and anon be giving
the rein to your unruly member, and then troubles
will be the consequence."
Maria hardly understood her mother, and did
not reply, and there the conversation ceased. On
the next morning, Cara Lee, another friend, called
in, and after some chat said,
I hear you have had a little fall out with Ann
Harris-is it true ?"
"There has been a little difference, but it is all
settled now," Maria replied. "That tattling busy.
body Harriet Wilson, went and repeated to her
that I said she was conceited. But she has been
well rewarded for her pains, for in a note that I
received from Ann, she expressed herself pretty
plainly about her, and said that she had a fond.


ness for retailing ill news, and that she should
take her to task about it."
She is served perfectly right," the friend re-
marked; then musing, as if suddenly recollecting
herself, she added; "(but I must be walking; I
have several calls to make this morning."
As soon as Cara Lee parted with Maria, she
turned away to see Harriet Wilson, who was one
of her very particular friends.
So Harriet," she said, "Maria and Ann Harris
have made up their difference, and from what I
can learn from Maria, Ann is pretty hard on you.
She is going to take you to task for your fond-
ness for retailing ill news. As for Maria, she
don't spare you, but calls you a tattling busy.
Of course Harriet was greatly incensed, and so
soon as her friend was gone, put on her bonnet,
and posted off to see Ann Harria She found that
young lady in, and commenced on her something
after this wise.
"I understand, Miss, that you say I am a re-
tailer of ill news, and that you mean to take me to
task about it."
Ann was taken a good deal by surprise, and felt
pained and confused at the sudden allegation. But
before she could collect herself sufficiently to reply,
Harriet said,
I should like to know if what I have heard be
It i true that I said," Ann now replied calmly,
"that when I saw you again I would take you to
task for your fondness for retailing ill news."


"You had no right to make such a charge
against me," Harriet said, in an angry tone, her
face flushed and her eyes sparkling. "It is a
false-- !"
If you were not angry I might, perhaps, con-
vince you that I had some ground for what I said,"
Ann replied, still in a collected voice. All of us
have our faults; I have mine, and you have yours,
and each of us is too apt to see those of others and
to be blind to our own. If instead of repeating to
me the remarks made by Maria Ellis, you had
reflected a moment as to what possible good could
grow out of it, and then resolved not to speak of it,
all this trouble would have been avoided."
And do you pretend to tell me to my face, that
I am fond of retailing ill news t" Harriet asked,
her anger greatly increased.
I try whenever I speak of another to confine
myself to what I think the truth," Ann replied, still
in a calm voice, "and this I never retract."
"Give me patience!" Harriet ejaculated, her
face now growing pale with passion.
You are wrong, Harriet," said Ann, thus to
be so much exasperated at so mere a trifle. Re-
flect whether almost every day you do not, in
speaking of your friends, allude to their faults in a
way that you could not bear to be spoken of. This
is too common a practice; and be assured, that
you do not always escape in this general habit of
censoriousness. You are not faultless, and it is
not in the nature of things that you should be."
Harriet could not collect her thoughts for a reply,
and Ann, after a pause, went on.


If, when Maria Ellis, under the influence of a
momentary ill-nature, as she frankly confesses her-.
self to have been, spoke of me as she thought in
calmer moments, you had restrained your pro-
pensity to repeat such things, no harm could have
resulted from her thoughtless, and I might almost
say innocent allegation. But when you came to
me, and told me that shelhad called me conceited,
it aroused my feelings and caused me to ask for
an explanation. With the frankness of a generous
spirit she at once confessed her fault, and all would
have been well again, if she had not thought-
lessly repeated what I said in my note to her about
But Harriet Wilson, though conscious that she
had acted wrong, was so much incensed as well as
mortified that others should think her wrong, that
she neither could nor would confess her fault, but
braved it off with anger and defiance. As soon as
she had gone away, Ann sat down and penned a
note to Maria Ellis.
Dear Maria: -It seems that our little diffi-
culty is not yet ended. I have just received a visit
from Harriet Wilson, who has treated me in a very
angry manner about what I said in my last note to
you in reference to her fondness for repeating ill
news. I am sorry that you communicated that to
any one, as it has not only prevented my making
an effort to show Harriet her fault, but has called
lowD upon me her indignant censure. Yours, dc.
ANN HAmsx."


"What is the matter now ?" asked Mrs. Ellis,
who saw by the sudden change in het daughter's
countenance that the note she had received was by
no means an agreeable one. No more doings of
the unruly member, I hope."
Maria's face crimsoned deeply as she handed her
mother the note. After Mrs. Ellis had read it, she
said somewhat kindly, for she really felt for Maria
in her unpleasant position:
You have not put on the right tongue bridle
yet, I see."
"I suppose not. But indeed, ma, I try to be
guarded how and to whom, I speak. I never could
have dreamed that Cara Lee would have gone right
off to Harriet Wilson and told her what I said.'
But the best way is not to speak unkindly of
any one."
"How could I have helped it, mother, in this
case ?"
By simply questioning yourself as to your real
motive for making the communication. It was not
to do Harriet Wilson good, was it ?"
"Well I can't say, mother, that it was."
"Your real motive was to make Cara Lee think
meanly of her, was it not?"
"Why mal do you think I -." Maria
paused and looked upon the floor, while her face
"Probe yourself thoroughly, my child. It is of
the first importance for you to know distinctly your
true character. If you have taken pleasure in the
idea of injuring another because she has wronged



or offended you, you have indulged in an evil af.
section, and unless that evil affection had lain con.
cealed in your mind, it never could have been
aroused into activity."
Maria looked thoughtful and concerned, and her
mother continued-
Surely, my child, it is not by indulging this
evil that it is to be weakened, much less by cowo
cealing it, even from yourself, after its indulgence.
It is better to look it in the face, confess that it is
wrong, and then try to shun it."
I think, mother, I now begin to see what you
mean by a tongue bridle," Maria said, looking up
seriously into the face of her kind adviser.
"Well, my child '"
"It is, that we should shun the cause of evil
That is it, Maria. If we condemn the feeling
that prompts us to speak unkindly of others, and
try to conquer it, we shall be in little danger of in-
dulging the bad habit. But if we only curb the
busy 'little member,' at the same time that we
desire to speak censoriously, we will be sure,
sooner or later to be betrayed into a word that had
better not have been uttered. Kind feelings for,
and a desire to do good to others, is the best tongue
I see it plain enough, dear mother and I am
resolved to try and put the true bridle upon my
And Maria did try to some purpose. The little
difficulty that she was in was soon amicably settled;

for she had all the parties together, confessed her
fault, and urged a general reconciliation. If, at
any time afterwards, she felt the desire to indulge
in unkind words, she turned her thoughts inwards
to the unkind feelings that prompted them, and she
was soon so much engaged in trying to conquer
those feelings, that the desire to speak from them
passed away. She had found the true TONGUE



"You will stand alone, Harvey."
SI cannot help it."
"Every student in college will be against you.
"I should be sorry for that. Still, if that is to
be the consequence, I must meet it."
Won't you join us T Say yes or no."
"You are a coward."
A bright spot became instantly visible on the
cheek of Harvey Willet. But he replied, calmly,.
If it be cowardice to fear to do wrong, then I
am a coward."
O, a saint a saint I" exclaimed several voices
at once.
"A precious stickler for right and wrong," re-
marked another.
He shall join us 1" one of the most reckless
students in the institution said, in an excited tone,
coming forward and standing close in front of
"Let us hear his reason," broke in another.
Yes-his reason I-his reason I" ran through the
group of students.
They are easily given," the young man replied,
calmly. When 1 came to this institution, it was
with a resolution, never to set its rules at defiance.
So soon as they become insufferable to me, I will
7 t)

apply to my friends to be removed. But so long
as I stay here, or in any institution, I will obey the
prescribed rules. As touching your proposed viola-
tion of one of these rules, I am clearly of opinion
that you are in the wrong, and that the faculty are
A Solomon!" was here heard from one or
two voices.
"He's a paltry coward, that is hbat he is!"
added others.
"Yes- he's afraid-"
"Of doing wrong," was uttered in the same
calm voice.
I hate a coward I" ejaculated one of the stu-
dents near his side, unmindful of Harvey's quiet
vindication of himself, and unable, in the fevered
state of his mind, to perceive how far above mere
animal courage was the moral power within him,
that enabled Harvey Willet to withstand the almost
overwhelming opposition of his excited and thought-
less fellow-students.
Why do you not carry out your scheme of
rebellion, or abandon it ?" Harvey asked, turning
to the young man who had last spoken. Moet
certainly, in carrying it out, you act without me."
"O, let him alone," now spoke up one. He
wants to curry favour with the Faculty."
"Let us duck the puppy !" said another.
If he wasn't a mean, cowardly fellow, he
would knock you down for that, John," hastily
exclaimed one standing near.
"0 of course; but I knew what kind of staft
he was made of," was the reply. Come on, let

us duck him," he added, advancing towards the
unyielding student.
Harvey Wilet folded his arms, and fixed his
eyes steadily upon the individual who approached
him. The latter could not brave the calm resolu-
,;on of his manner, but paused, saying,
Come on. Let us duck him."
But none seemed inclined to join in that kind of
sport, for there was not one who did not, unao-
knowledgedly to himself, feel the moral superiority
of the young man whom they were trying in vain
to bend to their wishes, and, in spite of themselves,
a respect for his firmness and integrity of purpose.
A few silent moments passed after this propo-
sition, and then, with various exclamations of
contempt, the whole party turned away, and left
Harvey Willet in freedom.
Although, under the impulse of angry feelings,
the whole body of students had sneered at Harvey's
honourable scruples, and well nigh proceeded to
personal injury because he would not join them in
a wrong action, yet such was the power of his
opposition, that a serious riot was prevented. As
calmness and reflection succeeded to their feverish
and irrational state, fanned into a flame by the
obstacle which they had imagined existed in Harvey,
many of the leaders felt a strange reluctance to
carry out the scheme of rebellion they had origia-
ated. And, finally, from the suggestion of doubts
and scruples, the whole project came to be aban-
Insensibly, a respect for the consistent firmness
of the student against whom they had been so in.

censed, came over their minds. A few, however,
still felt disappointed; and not unfrequently alluded
to the rare sport which they had promised them-
selves, and made no scruple of continuing to charge
its failure upon the cowardice or mean spirit of
Harvey Willet.
I think you apply the wrong term to Harvey,"
said one of the students to another, who frequently
alluded to Willet in terms of contempt. "I do not
believe that he is a coward."
"Then why did n't he join us ?"
"For other reasons, I am inclined to think, than
any fear of the consequences."
"What reasons, pray 1"
"He gave them. He did not wish to do
"Pooh!* and the young man tossed his head
contemptuously. Then after a moment-
"I 'II test his courage. I'll show you all that
he is a coward."
How will you do that, John Green ?"
Why, I '1 insult him before all the students."
I would not, if I were you."
"Yes you would; for I mean to do it."
This determination soon became whispered
throughout the classes, reaching all ears but those
of Harvey Willet. Already had the tide of estima.
tion turned generally in favour of the young man.
The moral tone of his character could not fail of
making an impression, for it was too apparent to
all who were not wilfully blind, that he acted in all
things from a principle of right. John Green, on
the contrary, was no favourite. He was reckless

and unprincipled, and there were but few who did
not fully estimate his true character.
When it became known that he was going to
insult Harvey Willet, and prove him a coward be.
fore all the students, a lively interest was awakened
in every mind; and there were few who did not
hope that Willet would act the man, as they said,
and signally chastise the other for any insolence that
he might offer. Various, however, were the opi-
nions as to the result; and two parties were soon
formed, one holding to the idea that Willet would
not fight, and the other to the belief that he would.
Under such circumstances, the interest of course
ran high.
On the next day, during a recess of the college ,
duties, all the students were assembled on the
green, and the opportunity was taken to offer
illet the proposed insult. The manner of begin-
ning it, was simply to jostle him so hard as nearly
to throw him over. This was of course observed
by all, and the two parties instantly became excited
to see the result.
That was done on purpose I" cried one.
Yes, it was; for I saw it !" said another.
"Knock him down!" exclaimed a third.
He's too much of a coward for that," Green
said, confronting him, and looking in his face with
a malicious, angry grin.
"Did you .do it on purpose ?" asked Harvey, in
a calm tone of voice, looking the young man
steadily in the face.
Yes, I did," was the reply. And now I dare
you to resent it."

"But why did you do it, John ? Have I injured
you in any way, and refused to make repara-
tion 1"
"I did it to see if you were brave enough to
resent it," Green said, in a sneering tone.
"That seems to me a very poor reason, John-"
"Knock him down, Harvey !" cried out one of
the company, interrupting Willet.
"Knock him down, or you are disgraced for
ever?" said a second.
"Yes, knock him down!" exclaimed a third.
"He's afraid!" burst out a fourth, with a pro-
voking, contemptuous laugh.
"I dare you to resent it," Green repeated,
pushing his face almost into that of the insulted
Some who stood near, saw the hand of Willet
clench suddenly, and his arm tremble, as if t41
impulse to strike the other were flowing down into
it. But the struggle in his mind was brief, and he
controlled himself.
You are a mean-spirited, cowardly puppy !"
Green now said, his face red with evil and pncon-
trollable passions. "And I'll disgrace you before
the whole college."
And as he said this, he advanced towards Wilet
"with his hand extended, and an expression of deter-
mination on his face.
But his purpose, whatever it was, he did not
execute. There was something in the stern, fixed
resolute expression of Willet's eye, that he could
not understand, and that the real coward, i* his
own heart, feared to encounter.


't Mei-sipiried coward !" he contented himself
with saying, with his own face again close into
that of Willet's.
"Let him alone, Green. He is disgraced
enough !" several voices exclaimed.
SYes, let him alone," passed through the circle.
Even those who had perceived the true nature of
the manly struggle in Willet's mind, were too
much under the power of the opposing sphere into
which they had been drawn, to acknowledge it even
to themselves, much less to speak a word in favour
of one whose very truth of principle had subjected
him to a base and unmanly persecution. But, aq
the excitement of their feelings died away, there
were not a few to admire, secretly, and some to
venture on its expression, the dignified firmness
with which Harvey had borne the wanton insults
that were heaped upon him; even while there was.
not a voice of encouragement lifted, nor a word
uttered in his favour.
"If Green had dared to lay his hands on him,
he would have found the lamb changed into a
lion,"-one ventured at length to remark.
"Yes," said another, saw by his eye-and
what is more, Green saw it, too-that if any per-
sonal violence were offered to him, he would have
defended himself to the last."
"It is certain," another remarked, "that in all
of his deportment, Harvey is consistent. If he
does not join in our tricks to annoy the Faculty,
he does not become, unasked, a mean informer."
"Yes: but if he knew, and were asked, he
would not conceal the truth," broke in one, with
something of indignant warmth.


And would you blame him for that ?"
"Certainly I would: from my very heart I de-
spise an informer. I would die, before I would
ever become evidence against a companion."
"You and he have learned your morals in a
different school," was the reply. "However I
might fail to act up to his high sense of right and
wrong, I cannot but admire his fearless consistency'
of conduct. There is not another in the whole
institution who could have stood up as he did, when
all were opposed to him, and the infliction of cor-
poreal punishment threatened to be added to the
disgrace that was thought to be inflicted."
"That 's all very pretty. But I don't believe a
word of his moral courage. It was a mean timidity
that prevented his joining us, and sheer cowardice
that kept him from knocking John Green down.
Why, I would have fought him until I had died,
had he insulted me as he did Harvey Willet."
Thus, there still continued two parties. One
fully in the belief that Harvey was a coward, and
mean-spirited; and the other, more than persuaded
that just the opposite was the truth.
It was about a month after the exciting event
just recorded, that the inhabitants of the quiet
village where stood the literary institution to which
Harvey was attached, were aroused about mid-
night with the startling cry of "Fire!" Every
student of course repaired to the scene of destruc.
tion. The building that was on fire, was a dwell-
ing-house, and a large portion of it was enveloped
in flames, when the great body of the students
arrived, among nearly the first, on the spot.

Just at that moment, every heart was thrilled by
the appearance of a mother, with her three child.
dren, emerging from the burning house. The poor
woman looked about her with a bewildered air, her
face deadly pale, and terror sitting upon every
"Where is Jane ?" she suddenly exclaimed, as
the sympathizing crowd without gathered round
and tendered their aid.
Jane! Jane !" she cried, turning this way and
that. "0, mercy! mercy! my child is still in
the house."
And turning away, she was about darting back
into the burning house, when those around laid
hold of, and prevented her. Heart-rending were
her screams, and terrible the struggles that she
made to break away. But strong grms held her
back. t t
Just at that moment, one of students glanced
past the crowd, and instantly appeared in the
dense body of smoke that filled the lower part of
the building. Above, the flames were bursting
from the windows, the roof was just ready to fall
in, and instant destruction seemed to threaten any
one who would dare to enter.
Who was it? who was it?" ran through the
breathless crowd, and all stood awaitingin anxi.
ous and painful suspense the reappearance'of the
adventurous individual. While thus looking on,
with eager and trembling hearts, the wild screams
of a child rose clear and thrilling above the noise
of the hissing, crackling, and roaring conflagra.
tion. One minute more of intense anxiety passed,

and then the form of Harvey Willet appeared at
the door, bearing in his arms the missing child.
As he laid it in the mother's arms, who clasped
it frantically to her bosom, the young man burst
into tears.
From that night, no student breathed aught
against the upright, brave, noble-hearted young
man. He was ever after loved and respected.
There was now no misunderstanding his true cha-


"WHo made that noise asked a teacher in
one of our public schools, coming into the clase-
A profound silence followed his question. There
were thirty boys all looking at him, some three or
four of whom had been guilty of a flagrant breach
of order; yet every face was alike innocent in ex-
pression, and no one replied to his question.
Boys," he asked in a calmer tone, "who made
that disturbance I Many of you know, and I de-
pend upon the lovers of good order here to make
common cause against the breach of it."
But still no one responded to the appeal.
I know," whispered one to another, but he's
not going to make a tell-tale of me."
"And so do I," replied his companion, "but
he'll not get it out of me, I can tell him."
And thus the low whispers ran through the room.
For more than a minute the teacher stood before
them awaiting some reply, and then retied to
attend to what he had been doing in the adjoining
room. But no sooner was his back turned than
the same noise that had disturbed him was renew.
ed, even louder than before.
He of course immediately returned, and again
stood before them.

Let the boys who have violated the good order
of the school hold up their hands," he said.
No hand was lifted.
Now let all who are innocent hold up their
Every hand was promptly raised.
For a few moments the teacher looked his school.
ars in the face, his own countenance expressing
pain and mortification. At length he said-
From a boy I have ever looked upon falsehood
as the most debasing crime, indicating a disposition
to commit any of the whole catalogue of crimes,
if the individual had the courage to do so. I am,
therefore, deeply pained to find that I have scholars
in my class who are not above this meanest of all
vices. It was bad enough to break the rules of the
school, but a thousand times worse to tell a false-
hood about it a falsehood too, that is reflected
upon every innocent, high-minded boy in the room.
I see here the sons of men whose standing in the
community for virtue and usefulness is known and
acknowledged by all. These boys, I am sorry to
say, are all involved in the guilt of this violation
of order, and what is worse, in the crime of a vir.
tual denial of it; for how can I discriminate when
all act alike? When I ask the guilty to hold up
their hands, no hand is lifted; but when I call upon
the innocent to attest their innocence, all declare
themselves to be innocent. I will now try you
once more. Let the guilty hold up their hands."
But no hand was lifted.
Now let the innocent lift their hands."
Every hand was again raised.


I would not be the boy who has thus lifted his
hand before the school in attestation of a false.
hood, for all the wealth this world could bestow,"
the teacher said as he looked at his class for a mo-
ment or two and then turned away and again left
the room. Although he remained out for full ten
minutes, he was not again disturbed.
"You were one, James Harker," said a boy in
a low tone, looking with a half indignant expres-
sion of countenance at the boy who sat next to
I don't care if I was. He couldn't find it out,"
was the prompt reply.
But I don't think it right that others should be
blamed for what you have done."
You are not going to turn tell-tale, are you 7"
Harker said with a sneer.
No, not a mere tell-tale; but still I am not cer-
tain that I shall not let our teacher know that you
were one of the offenders, unless you have the true
spirit to do so yourself."
0, tell-tale! tell-tale! tell-tale! Tom Jones is
going to turn tell-tale !" James Harker said, so loud
as to be heard all around, pointing at the same time
at Jones, while his face was expressive of the most
sovereign contempt.
"Are you going to tell on me too ?" asked a boy
sitting near, with a threatening look.
I did not see you making a noise."
"You 'd better not,,I can tell you."
I did not see you, so you need not fear," was
Thomas Jones's reply: "but I can tell you what
I think. If you did make the noise, and then so


publicly denied it as you did, I think that every
honest-minded boy here should feel it his duty to
expose you."
"Let any one dare to do it," was the reply to
After school, several of the boys got around
Thomas Jones, and attempted to convince him that
to turn informer would be the most despicable thing
in the world.
I don't think it half so bad as to be a violator
of the rules ofothe school, and a liar into the bar-
gain," was his quick rejoinder.
"There a'nt a meaner creature in the world
than a tell-tale," said James Harker, with his ex-
pressive sneer.
'"Which is worse, James-he who tells what is
true of another, or he who falsely accuses him ?"
I will leave you to draw all such nice distinc-
tions," Harker replied, tossing his head contemptu-
"It is not hard for me to draw them, James,
nor, I presume, for any boy here. But it is use-
less for us to talk about this matter. I will tell
you what I will do, and if I say so, you may be
sure that I will. If you will go up to-morrow.
and tell our teacher that you did the wrong he
complained of, I will keep silent but if you will
not, my mind is made up to do it. I cannot, and
I will not, rest under the imputation of having told
a falsehood when I am innocent; nor do I think
that I am right in suffering the whole class to rest
under a false accusation, while it is in my power
to remove it."

I always thought you were a mean, low crea-
ture," Harker replied-- and now I know it."
"He'll prove himself the meanest boy in the
school, if he does it," said another of the wrong.
He 'd better not tell on me," broke in a third.
t Look here, Thomas, come with me," another
lad said, taking Thomas Jones by the arm and
drawing him aside, when the two walked off to.
SI would' say anything about it if I were
you," continue the lad --" you will only get the
ill-will of those boys, and perhaps of the whole
class. You know how much an informer is de-
"There is a great difference, John," was the
reply, "as my father has often told me, between a
mere informer or tell-tale, as it is called in school,
and one who makes known the wron actions of
another for tho good of the whole. Now, if, for
the mere delight of seeing others punished, I were
to be constantly running to the teacher with com.
plaints against my fellow-students, then I would be
that justly despised individual, a tell-tale. But I
have no such motives in view. James Harker has
not only violated the rules of the class, thus throw-
ing the class into disorder, and hindering its pro-
gress, but has, by his. bad conduct, and wicked
denial of it, involved the whole class, you and I
among the rest, in the imputation of being viola-
tors of good order, and utterers of falsehood into
the bargain. Now, for one, I have been taught to
love truth from my earliest recollection, and I

cannot, and will not rest under a charge of false-
Then why not go to the teacher and declare
your innocence?"
What good would that do? Has not every boy
in the class made such a declaration, the innocent
with the guilty ? I could not ask the teacher to be-
lieve me."
"Well, indeed, I would not do it, Thomas,"
urged his friend.
"You have presented no good reason yet, John,
why I should not do as I have determined."
"I have said that you would gain the ill-will of
the whole class."
That is not a reason sufficient to induce me to
refrain from doing a right action."
Thus the two boys conversed as they walked
along, and at length parted from each other. As
soon as Thomas Jones entered his own house, he
sought out his father, to whom he always went in
difficulties, and by whose judgment he was always
guided. To him he submitted his case, and asked
to be advised.
"You have made up your mind, you say," the
father remarked, after he had heard all his boy had
to relate, "to inform your teacher, to-morrow1 that
James Harker was one of the offenders 7"
"That is, if you approve of my doing so."
"From the statement that you have given,
Thomas, I do certainly approve of it. But you
will no doubt be censured, and have your motives
misinterpreted by many of your fellow-students."
"I know that, father. But you have often told

me, that in every important action I should be go-
verned by right motives, and not by the opinions
of others."
And you are conscious of having right motives
in what you now propose to do?"
I am."
"You do not feel glad at the idea of having
James Harker censured for his conduct ?"
Indeed I do not. It is that idea that causes me
to hesitate more than anything else."
"What then is your motive?"
"One motive is, to relieve myself from the
charge of disorderly conduct, and from an imputa-
tion of falsehood-and another motive is, to relieve
from similar censure, all in the class who are inno-
cent. It seems to me, in a case like this, that it is
every boy's duty to point out the guilty who thus
take away from the good character of the whole.
Shall what is good be injured under the false idea
that it is mean to expose what is evil ?"
"You certainly reason correctly, my boy," Mr.
Jones replied, and I shall fully approve the act
you contemplate. Do not be deterred from doing
it, under the idea that you will be branded as an
informer. There are many cases where it is right
to become an informer, and wrong to withhold in-
formation; and this, I am fully persuaded, is an
instance where the former rule is clearly applica-
ble. But, in making your communication, as it is
one in which your character and standing with the
school is involved, do so in writing, under your
own name, with reasons. It is the duty of every
one, after resolving to act right in a matter where

he may be misjudged, to give his reasons, that he
may not be injured by false-judgment."
On the next morning, Thomas Jones waited
until near the close of the school, to see if James
Harker would be honest and magnanimous enough
to confess his fault; but as he did not do so, he
went up, with a firm step, to the teacher's stand,
handed him a note, and then retired to his seat.
The teacher read the note, and, after reflecting for
a few minutes, arose and called the school to order.
"I hold a note in my hand," he said, after
silence and attention were obtained, "the reading
of which has afforded me no ordinary gratification.
It indicates a tone of feeling and principle highly
honourable to the writer. As requested by him, I
will now read it to the class.

Mr. --- Sir:--Yesterday there was a vio-
lation of order in the school, the perpetrators of
which you endeavoured to find out, but in vain.
In your manner of ascertaining the guilty, the
innocent became involved in the imputation of dis.
order, and what is a thousand times worse, of
falsehood. I saw one boy in the act of making
the noise you complained of, and have tried, in
vain, to convince him that he ought to confess his
fault, and thus relieve his fellow-students from the
charge under which they now rest. But he will
not do so, and calls me a 'tell-tale,' and other
hard names, because I tell him that if he will not
do so, I shall be compelled to become an informer.
Now, in doing so, I wish it to be clearly under-
stood, that I am not prompted by a desire to see


him punished, but am only impelled, from a sense
of duty to myself and the whole class, to do this
act. The boy's name is James Harker. Please
read this to the class.

James Harker will come forward," the teacher
said, as he laid aside the note.
The boy he called came forward with a guilty,
downcast face. *
"Did you make the noise I complained of yes-
terday ?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Why did you do it?"
"Bill Grimes, and Henry Peters, and Tom
Price, were as bad as I was. They made a noise
"William Grimes, Henry Peters, and Thomas
Price, will all come forward."
The three boys named came forward, and when
questioned, did not deny the charge.
You now see," remarked the teacher, the
four boys who involved in disgrace the whole
class. You also see the difference between a high-
minded boy, impelled by a sense of duty to become
an informer, and what is meant by a mere tell-tale.
Thomas Jones is the one, James Harker the other.
So soon as the guilt of the latter is discovered he
immediately informs on all who are guilty in the
hope of seeing them likewise punished.
And now," continued the teacher, let every
boy who blames Thomas Jones for what he has
done, hold up his hand."
Not a hand was raised.


Now let all who approve his conduct hold up
their hands."
Every hand was lifted, and every countenance
expressed gratification.
The class was then dismissed, and the offenders
left with the teacher, to be dealt with as he might
see to be most for their good and the welfare of the
In this little story, the principal incidents of
which are true, I have endeavoured to give my
young readers some idea of the difference between
acting from a mere selfish impulse, and from a
clear conviction of right. It is the motive from
which a thing is done, that determines the quality
or character of an action. Thus, an action may
be good or bad, so far as the individual is concern-
ed, according to the motive which influences him.
Thomas Jones did right in informing upon James
Harker, because his end was a good one--but
James Harker was acted upon by a wrong motive,
the desire to see his companions in evil punished
with himself, when he became an informer, and
therefore his act, as far as he was concerned, was
an evil one. Learn then, my young friends, to
discriminate between motives, and to be well as-
sured of their character before you act from them.
And also resolve, when you are clearly convinced
that it is right for you to do a thing, and that it is
your duty to do it, that you will do that thing, re-
gardless of what may be thought or said of you.
Then, when you grow up to be men, will you be
truly useful in society; for to men of like charac.
ter is society indebted for all the great moral refor-
mations that have ever taken place in the world.


\ AM going to leave school at the expiration of
this term," remarked Edward Mayo, a youth be.
tween seventeen and eighteen, to his friend and
companion, Charles Carpenter, as the two were
wending their way homeward, after having finished
their studies for the day.
"And I expect to do the same very soon,"
Charles said, with evident pleasure at the idea.
"What business or profession do you intend
learning?" asked Edward.
I have determined to go into a store. I want
to be a merchant. But what have you chosen,
Edward? Not one of the learned professions, I
hope? But I suppose you have. You will be a
lawyer, I have not the least doubt."
Yes, Charles, I have determined to go into Mr.
Barker's office, and read law."
Well, I'm sorry to hear it, Edward."
"Why are you sorry, Charles?"
"Because you've got a hard, dull way before
you, and your final success is uncertain. Few,
Edward, I have heard my old uncle say, can gain
eminence in legal pursuits; and without distinction,
it is but a poor business. The field for merchan.
dizing is broader, and promises to industry and
carefulness more certain returns."

"That may be true, Charles; and merchan-
dizing is as honourable and useful a calling as any
other; but I have been taught by my father to
believe that our success and, usefulness in any
business will depend very much upon the motives
with which we enter into it, and our happiness in
that business much more. If we have only 'a
regard to ourselves if the only motive we have
for choosing a profession be the selfish one of
getting wealth or honour-then, we may indeed be
successful, but cannot be happy in our success.
But if, in choosing among those to which our in-
clinations lead us, we choose that in which we
think we can, at the same time that we benefit
ourselves, render most important services to others,
then we are in the road to honourable success,
united to calm contentment."
"Then I would advise you to be a minister,"
Charles said, half ironically -" you can certainly
do more good as a minister than as a:lawyer."
"I do not think so," Edward replied. "There
are callings many and various that are all useful,
as my father has frequently impressed upon my
mind, while talking to me about choosing a profes-
sion; and there are as great varieties of capacities
for filling these. The man whose peculiarity of
mind fits him to be a successful lawyer, would not,
in all probability, make a good minister; nor
would the individual who has a preference for
medical science make a good merchant; and so
through all the varied callings in life. Each of
them is useful and honourable, as I have before
said, if they are made useful and honourable.e


"Well, maybe you are right," Charles said,
"but I am no philosopher, and cannot pretend to
look so deeply into matters and things. My old
uncle, whose opinions I am bound.to respect, be.
cause he is kind to me, and has been quite success.
ful in the world, says that he would rather see me
a sailor or a soldier than a doctor, lawyer, or
preacher, He don't seem to have much opinion,
you see, of the learned professions; and I am
pretty much like him in that respect. But he
thinks I am the very one for trade, in which, be
says, I will be sure to be successful, if I am only
prudent at first. He prophesies that;Li will be rich;
and all. I can say, is, that I hope he is a true
Father says to me,"J'dward remarked to this,
that it would be wrong in me to set riches before
me as an end. That if I do so, I will look to
riches as the one thing in life desirable-that I will
be restless until I have gained my end, and then
discover that wealth has no power to make me
happy. But, that if I will endeavour to give the
idea of riches its true subordinate place, and make
usefulness to others, as far as I can, the end which
I have in view, then I will be happy as well as
successful, just so far as I can elevate usefulness
as an end above riches."
"You have a strange way of talking, some-
times," Chares said, "but I don't pretend to see
things with your eyes, and I am sure I don't wish
to. I am going to learn my business, with the
same motives that others do, that I may get the
ability to maki money. Money, you know, ts


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