y came to a stand in his business,
ruined by heavy speculations in funds and shares; when the man who
couldn't say "No" was called upon to make good the heavy duties due to
the Crown. It was a heavy stroke, and made him a poor man. But he never
grew wise. He was a post against which every needy fellow came and
rubbed himself; a tap, from which every thirsty soul could drink; a
flitch, at which every hungry dog had a pull; an ass, on which every
needy rogue must have his ride; a mill, that ground everybody's corn but
his own; in short, a "good-hearted fellow," who couldn't for the life of
him say "No."

It is of great importance to a man's peace and well-being that he should
be able to say "No" at the right time. Many are ruined because they
cannot or will not say it. Vice often gains a footing within us, because
we will not summon up the courage to say "No." We offer ourselves too
often as willing sacrifices to the fashion of the world, because we have
not the honesty to pronounce the little word. The duellist dares not say
"No," for he would be "cut." The beauty hesitates to say it, when a rich
blockhead offers her his hand, because she has set her ambition on an
"establishment." The courtier will not say it, for he must smile and
promise to all.

When pleasure tempts with its seductions, have the courage to say "No"
at once. The little monitor within will approve the decision; and virtue
will become stronger by the act. When dissipation invites, and offers
its secret pleasures, boldly say "No." If you do not, if you acquiesce
and succumb, virtue will have gone from you, and your self-reliance will
have received a fatal shock. The first time may require an effort; but
strength will grow with use. It is the only way of meeting temptations
to idleness, to self-indulgence, to folly, to bad custom, to meet it at
once with an indignant "No." There is, indeed, great virtue in a "No,"
when pronounced at the right time.

A man may live beyond his means until he has nothing left. He may die in
debt, and yet "society" does not quit its hold of him until he is laid
in his grave. He must be buried as "society" is buried. He must have a
fashionable funeral. He must, to the last, bear witness to the power of
Mrs. Grundy. It is to please her, that the funeral cloaks, hatbands,
scarves, mourning coaches, gilded hearses, and processions of mutes are
hired. And yet, how worthless and extravagant is the mummery of the
undertaker's gri