"DEAR MR. BROWN: My neglect of my duty in directing a letter was the
real cause of the suspicion that fell upon you. I can never forgive
myself. I can hardly hope you can forgive me. If you will be
generous enough to try to do so, you will make me less unhappy. If
you accept the sum I enclose you to meet the expenses of your
journey, I shall be less miserable. By taking it you will prove that
you pity and forgive me,--the unintentional cause of so much evil to
you and your excellent mother." George enclosed a check for five
hundred dollars, all he had saved from his earnings as a clerk for
the two years past.
"Thank Heaven, my innocence is proved!" said the honest fellow.
"But, Mother, I don't want the money."
"It is kinder to take it," said the mother.
Harry submitted. Ere long, he was able to move on crutches. He and
his mother were again in their little cottage. Harry received the
heartiest welcome from his towns-people when he was seen again with
his one leg in his place in the post-office.
George often went to the town. His first visit was always to Mrs.
Brown. He treated her as if she were his mother, and her son was to
him as a brother. He was often heard to say, "The sound of Harry
Brown's crutches always reminds me sorrowfully that when there is a
duty to perform involving the rights of others we should never say,
It is only a trifle."
"It seems to me," said Frank, "that I should never have been happy
again to have caused so much misery by the neglect of my duty; and
yet, Mother, it did seem a trifle."
"My mother," replied Mrs. Chilton, "said to me, when I was a girl,
Never consider any duty, ever so great, as too difficult, or any,
ever so small, as too trifling. I have never forgotten her words,
and though I have not always been faithful to this lesson, it has
often saved me from wrong-doing and its consequent unhappiness."
After a short silence, Mrs. Chilton said to her boys, The next story
is not so painful, but it illustrates the same truth--that, in
matters of conscience, nothing is trifling. You shall now hear how
happy a good conscience can make one even under the severest trials.
One pleasant afternoon, my friend and I were seated in the neat
little room which served old Susan Vincent for parlor, kitchen, and
bed-room. She was sitting in a nice arm-chair which her infirmities
made necessary for her comfort. A kind friend had sent it to her.
She had on a nice clean gingham gown, a handkerchief crossed on her
neck, in the fashion of the Shakers, and a plain cap, as white as
the driven snow, covered her silver locks. A little round table,
polished by frequent scouring, stood beside her; on it was her
knitting work, Baxter's Saints' Rest, and the Bible; the last lay
open before her. She was reading in it when we entered. As her door
was open and she did not hear very quickly, we had an opportunity of
observing her before she perceived us. There was that deep interest
in her manner of reading this holy book, as she was leaning over it
with her spectacles on, entirely absorbed, that made her resemble a
person who was examining a title deed to an estate which was to make
her the heir of uncounted treasures. She was indeed reading with her
whole soul the proofs she there found of her claim to an inheritance
that makes all earthly riches seem poor indeed.
"I am glad to see you, dear," was her affectionate welcome to me;
"do I know this lady with you?"
"No," I answered; "she is my friend whom I told you the other day I
should bring to see you."
"I am glad to see her if she is your friend," she replied.
"I want you, Susan, if you are strong enough to-day, to repeat to my
friend that little account of yourself that you were once kind
enough to give me."
"What, the whole story?" said Susan, "beginning at the beginning, as
the children say?"
Susan was silent a minute or two, as if to collect her thoughts, and
then said, I have always believed, that, though it seemed strange
that such a good-for-nothing creature as I am should be spared, and
others taken away, that, may be, I was left to give my testimony for
some good purpose, and that my experience might do some good to poor
pilgrims. For
"It is a straight and thorny road,
And mortal spirits tire and faint;
But they forget the mighty God
Who feeds the strength of every saint."
Susan knew half the hymn book by heart, and loved to repeat hymns so
well, that she could hardly have told her story without this
preface. She immediately began as follows:--
"My father, who was a sailor, lost his life at sea when I was two
years old; my mother never had very good health, and about six years
afterward she fell into a consumption. She lived only a year after
she was taken sick. I was too young to remember much of her, but I
have a distinct recollection of seeing her often sitting by a little
stand like this, with an open Bible upon it; and once I was struck
with her looking up to heaven with her hands clasped for a long time
as if she were praying, and then looking at me, and then at the
book; and I saw big tears rolling down her cheeks. She called me to
her, and said, with an earnest but broken voice, God save my child
from the evil that is in the world! and give her the testimony of a
good conscience.
These words I could not forget, for the next day she died. We forget
many things in this world, ladies, but the words of a dying mother
we cannot help remembering. This was the first time I had ever seen
death, but there was such a peaceful, happy expression in my
mother's face, that it did not seem very terrible to me, till I
found they were going to carry her away; indeed, I think I must have
believed it was sleep, and expected her to awake; for, when they
took her from me, I was half out of my senses, and screamed for them
to leave me my mother.
A kind old lady, a friend to my mother, took me in her lap and put
her arms round me, and tried to soothe and comfort me. She told me
my mother had gone to heaven; that it was only her body that was
dead; but that her soul was living, and was gone to heaven. "She
will never be sick or unhappy any more; she is gone to God, and she
will live forever with Jesus Christ and all good beings."
"But I want to see her," said I.
"You will see her again, I doubt not, my child, if you are good,"
the old lady said. Perhaps I should not have remembered so exactly
what she said, if she had not frequently repeated the same thing to
me, and if I had not loved my mother so much.
This excellent lady took me home with her, and it was to her
goodness I owe every thing. She had lost nearly all her property by
the failure of a merchant to whom she had lent money; she had
supported herself by taking boarders. I was perfectly destitute; my
mother had made out to get a living by taking in sewing, but left
nothing. The last year of her life she could not have got along
without my assistance, and what was given her by her charitable
neighbors; and for the last three months she could not even make her
bed, or clean her own room, or do her little cooking, without my
help. And O, how happy I was when I was helping my dear mother! Now
at this moment, when I am so old, and forget so many things, how
well I remember her and all she said! It seems as if I could hear
her say, "What should I do without you, my dear Susan." It seems to
me as if I would rather live over again those days, when I was
trying to help and comfort my sick mother, than any of my whole
life. Children are not aware how much they can do for their parents,
nor do they know what a blessed remembrance it will be to them to
think that they have lessened the sufferings of a sick mother. All
the riches in the world would not afford them such happiness.
Mrs. Brown, the kind lady who took me home, told me that she would
send me to school, and that I should have a home at her house; but
that, as she was very poor, she should expect me to exert myself
when I was not at school, and do all I could to help in the house;
and that I must improve my time at school. She gave me a great deal
of good advice, and told me I must not imitate the bad conduct that
I might see; and that I must never do any thing without asking my
conscience whether it was right to do it. I remember she asked me if
I knew what my conscience was. I was not quite sure that I did; so I
said, I did not know whether I did. Then she asked me if I ever
remembered doing wrong.
"O yes, ma'am," I said; "I never shall forget playing with my
mother's bottle of cough drops, when she told me not to, and
spilling them all out. I did not tell her of it at first, and she
could not get any more till next day; and every time she coughed, it
seemed as if my heart would break; and I hated myself, and could not
bear it at all till I told her I had played with the bottle and
spilled the drops."
"It was your conscience, Susan," the old lady said, "that was so
troubled; it was your conscience that said you must tell your
mother; this is God's witness in your heart; always do as that
directs you, and come what will, Susan, you can bear it."
I was so grateful to my kind friend for her tender care of me, that
I attended to all she said to me, and never forgot it; and it has
been the source of happiness to me through life. I had not been long
in the school before I had a trial of my conscience, and I thank Him
who is the giver of all strength that I resisted this first
temptation.
One day the schoolmistress left her penknife open upon her desk,
when she went out of her room during the recess; nearly all the
girls took it into their hands to look at it, for it had a number of
blades, and was rather curious; some of them tried the knife to see
how sharp it was. We had been told not to meddle with her things,
and all of us knew it was wrong; as I was one of the small girls, I
did not get a chance to look at it till all had seen it; but, when
the others ran out to the play ground, and I was left alone, I went
to the desk, and took up the knife, and opened and shut all the
blades; but instead of leaving the one open which I found so, I left
open another blade, just put it on the edge of my nail, to see how
very sharp it was, and then laid it down, and ran after the rest of
the girls.
When the schoolmistress came in, she immediately saw that we had
taken up her knife. "Some one," said she, "has been using my knife;
I am sure of it, because the blade that I left open is shut, and
another is open, and it is gapped; who has done it?" Not a girl
spoke; I thought that I was the only one who had opened and shut the
blades, but I knew I had not gapped either of them. I knew that all
the others had taken up the knife; I was afraid to speak; I did not
like to take the whole blame, and I was silent as the other girls
were.
After waiting a few minutes, our teacher said, "As none of you
choose to confess who has done this, I shall have to punish the
innocent with the guilty; I shall take away a merit from all of you,
except those few girls who, I feel sure, would not disobey me."
There were only five girls in the school who did not lose a merit,
and I was one of the number. As she named them over, and gave her
reasons for believing them innocent, when she came to me, she said,
"Little Susan Vincent has been so orderly and so good ever since she
has been here, that I am sure it was not she that did it, and, if
she had, I am sure she would confess it."
I felt as if I was choking; I put my head clear down so that no one
could see my face; but the girls, who had none of them seen me touch
the knife, thought that my modesty made me appear so much confused;
no one but God and myself knew that I had a guilty conscience. I
felt too dreadfully to speak then; I thought of nothing else all
school time; I missed in all my lessons, for I did not attend to any
thing that was said to me. The schoolmistress thought I was sick,
and I went home miserable enough.
As I went along, I thought over all that Mrs. Brown had said to me
about conscience, and I understood then what she meant by the voice
of God in the heart. No one accused me, but I felt like a criminal;
every one thought well of me; my schoolmistress and companions all
loved me; but I despised and hated myself. I felt as if God was
displeased with me.
As usual, I went directly to Mrs. Brown to ask what she had for me
to do. "What's the matter, Susan?" said she; "you don't look right;
have you been naughty, or are you sick, child?"
I could not bear to have her speak so kindly to me when I did not
deserve it, and I burst into tears; I loved her like a mother, and I
told her all.
"And now, Susan, what are you going to do?"
"I want you, ma'am, to tell the schoolmistress."
"Better tell her yourself," she answered.
After thinking a while, I said that I would; and then my conscience
was a little easier. I went a little before the time, that I might
see her alone. When I came in, I found a friend of hers with her,
and I heard my mistress whisper, "This is my dear little orphan
girl." She called me to her, and took me up in her lap. "Well,
honest little Sue," said she, "why don't you look up in my face, as
you know you always do?"
This was too much for me; I burst into tears, and put my hands over
my face.
"What's the matter, Susan?" said she.
As soon as I could speak, I said, "I did open the knife; I was
wicked when you thought I was good, for I did not tell the truth; I
opened and shut all the blades, and I cut a notch on my nail with
one, and then I did not tell you of it when you asked who opened
it." When I had got it all out, I felt better; it seemed as if a
great load was taken off of my heart.
In a few minutes, my kind friend said to me, "I am sorry you did
wrong, Susan; but I am very glad to see that you have a tender
conscience, and that it has made you come and confess your faults; I
am very glad that you are so sorry; it is a bad sign when children
think they are happy, after they have done wrong. I trust, my dear
Susan, that you have suffered so much, that you will never commit
such a fault again; it was only foolish and disobedient to take up
my knife, but it was very wrong not to tell me, when I asked who did
it, and let me punish so many girls for your offence."
I saw that she thought I was the only one that had touched the
knife, and believed me worse than I was; and then I felt what a
difference there was between a good and an evil conscience; for it
did not trouble me half so much that she thought me worse than I
really was, as to see that she thought me better.
Then she said, "You must, Susan, confess before the whole school
that it was you that took my knife."
While she was speaking, the girls came in. I had cried so much that
I could hardly speak; and my good friend said that, as I was a
little girl, she would speak for me.
As soon as she said that I had confessed that it was I that took the
knife, almost every girl in the school cried out, "It was not little
Susan, it was I!" "It was not Sue, it was I!" was heard all round
the room. This made me feel bold enough to speak, and I said,
"Yes, I did take it up when you were all out on the play ground; I
opened and shut all the blades, and cut a little notch on my nail."
"And so did I!" "And so did I!" was heard from a number of voices.
"And we took it up first," said all the girls.
When there was silence, the schoolmistress told us that she was glad
to see that, though we had done wrong in the morning, we were trying
now to do right, and repair our fault; that although we had not
obeyed conscience then, we were acting as it directed us now.
"And are you not all happier?" said she. "Yes," they all said. "And
is not God good, to put this feeling in your hearts, that makes you
unhappy when you do wrong, and happy when you do right? Follow this
guide, children, and it will lead you to heaven."
It may seem strange that a child, hardly nine years old, should
remember all that was said at such a time; but I suffered a great
deal before I confessed my fault, for I was a little proud of my
good character at school, and my suffering made me remember.
Besides, Mrs. Brown often talked about conscience to me, and told me
that I must learn to govern myself, for that when she died, I should
have nothing but my character to depend upon; no guide but my Bible
and my conscience, and no protector but God.
When I was about fifteen years old, Mrs. Brown, my kind friend,
died, go sweetly and calmly that death in her seemed beautiful. I
sat by her side, after I had closed her eyes, and looked in her dear
face, till even my grief at losing her was quieted, and till I felt
what we learn in the good book, that the good never die. I felt sure
that her soul was with God.
After the funeral, I went out to inquire for a place, and soon found
one, for every one knew Mrs. Brown's regard for me.
I met with a great trouble at my first place; I was the chamber
maid, and the nursery maid was envious of me, because my mistress
liked me better than her. She often accused me of faults I did not
commit; but, when my mistress spoke to me, I looked and was so
innocent that she was convinced.
One morning my mistress sent for me; as soon as I saw her face I
knew that something very bad was the matter, for the tears came into
her eyes when she spoke to me. She told me that she was very sorry,
but that she could not keep me any longer; she was grieved to lose
me, but more for the cause.