Earlier text: NOTE TO THE READER.“Rather a heavy burden, isn’t it, my boy?” Clarence Spencer, to whom the words had been addressed, turned from the ledger, and looked toward the speaker. Clarence was a young man—not more than five and twenty—and he was book-keeper to Mr. Solomon Wardle, a pleasant-faced, keen-eyed man of fifty, who had spoken. “A heavy burden, isn’t it, Clarence?” the merchant repeated. And still the young man was silent. His looks indicated that he did not comprehend. He had been for some time bending over the ledger, with his thoughts far away; and that his thoughts were not pleasant ones was evident from the gloom on his handsome face. “My dear boy, the burden is not only heavy now, but it will grow heavier and heavier the longer you carry it.” “Mr. Wardle, I do not comprehend you.” “I certainly do not.”35“Didn’t I call at your house for you this morning?” “And didn’t I see and hear enough to reveal to me the burden that you took with you when you left? You must remember, my boy, that I am older than you are, and that I have been through the mill. You find your burden heavy; and I have no doubt Sarah’s heart is as heavy laden as your own.” And then Clarence Spencer understood, and the morning’s scene was present with him, as it had been since leaving home. On that morning he had had a dispute with his wife. It had occurred at the breakfast table. There is no need of reproducing the scene. Suffice it to say that it had come of a mere nothing, and had grown a cause of anger. The first had been a look and a tone; then a flash of impatience; then a rising of the voice; then another look; the voice grew higher; the reason was unhinged; passion gained sway, and the twain lost sight of the warm, enduring love that lay smitten and aching down deep in their hearts, and felt, for the time, only the passing tornado. And Clarence remembered that Mr. Wardle had entered the house and caught a sight of the storm. And Clarence Spencer thought of one thing more; he thought of how miserably unhappy he had been all the morning; and he knew not how long his burden of unhappiness was to be borne. “Honestly, Clarence, isn’t it a heavy and thankless burden?” The book-keeper knew that his employer was his friend, and that he was a true-hearted, Christian man; and, after a pause, he answered, “Yes, Mr. Wardle; it is a heavy burden.” “My boy, I am going to venture upon a bit of fatherly counsel. I hope I shall not offend.” “Not at all,” said Clarence. But he winced a little, as though the probing gave him a new pain. “In the first place,” pursued the old man, with a quiver of emotion in his voice, “you love your wife?” “Love her? Yes, passionately.” “And you think she loves you in return?” “I don’t think anything about it—I know.” “You know she loves you?” “Then you must admit that the trouble37this morning came from no ill-feeling at heart.” “It was but a surface squall, for which you, at least, are very sorry?” A moment’s hesitation, and then—“Yes, yes; I am heartily sorry.” “Now mark me, Clarence, and answer honestly. Don’t you think that your wife is as sorry as you are?” “And don’t you think she is suffering all this time? Very well. Let that pass. You know she is bearing her part of the heavy burden?” “And now, my boy, do you comprehend where the heaviest part of this burden is lodged?” Clarence looked upon his questioner wonderingly. “If the storm had blown over, and you knew that the sun would shine when you next entered your home, you would not feel so unhappy?” “But,” continued Mr. Wardle, “you fear38there will be gloom in your home when you return?” The young man bowed his head as he replied in the affirmative. “Because,” the merchant added, with a touch of parental sternness in his tone, “you are resolved to carry it there!” Clarence looked up in surprise. “Ay; you have the burden in your heart, and you mean to carry it home. Remember, my boy, I have been there, and I know all about it. I have been very foolish in my lifetime, and I have suffered. I suffered until I discovered my folly, and then I resolved I would suffer no more. Upon looking the matter squarely and honestly in the face, I found that the burdens which had so galled me had been self-imposed. Of course such burdens can be thrown off. Now you have resolved that you will go home to dinner with a heavy heart and dark face. You have no hope that your wife will meet you with a smile. And why? Because you know that she has no particular cause for smiling. You know that her heart is burdened with the affliction which gives you so much unrest.39And you are fully assured that you are to find your home shrouded in gloom. And furthermore, you don’t know when that gloom will depart, and when the blessed sunshine of love will burst in again. And why don’t you know? Because it is not now in your heart to sweep the cloud away. You say to yourself, ‘I can bear it as long as she can!’ Am I right?” Clarence did not answer in words. “I know I am right,” pursued the merchant, “and very likely your wife is saying to herself the same thing. So your hope of sunshine does not rest upon the willingness to forgive, but upon the inability to bear the burden. By-and-by it will happen, as it has happened before, that one of the twain will surrender from exhaustion; and it will be likely to be the weaker party. Then there will be a collapse, and a reconciliation. Generally the wife fails first beneath the galling burden, because her love is keenest and most sensitive. The husband, in such a case, acts the part of a coward. When he might, with a breath, blow the cloud away, he cringes and cowers until his wife is forced to let the sunlight in through her breaking heart.” Clarence listened, and was troubled. He saw the truth, felt its weight. He was not a fool, nor was he a liar. During the silence that followed he reflected upon the past, and he called to his mind scenes just as Mr. Wardle had depicted. And this brought him to the remembrance of how he had seen his wife weep when she had failed and sunk beneath the heavy burden, how often she had sobbed upon his bosom in grief for the error. The merchant read the young man’s thoughts, and after a time he rose and touched him on the arm. “Clarence, suppose you put on your hat and go home. Suppose you should think, on your way, only of the love and blessing that might be; with this thought you should enter your abode with a smile on your face, and you should put your arms around your wife’s neck, and kiss her, and softly say to her, ‘My darling, I have come home to throw down the burden I took away with me this morning. It is greater than I can bear.’ Suppose you were to do this, would your wife repulse you?” “Ah, my boy, you echo my words with an amazement which shows that you understand41me. Now, sir, have you the courage to try the experiment? Dare you be such a man? Or do you fear to let your wife know how much you love her? Do you fear she would respect and esteem you the less for the deed? Tell me, do you think the cloud of unhappiness might thus be banished? O Clarence, if you would but try it!” Sarah Spencer had finished her work in the kitchen and in the bed-chamber, and sat down with her work in her lap. But she could not ply her needle. Her heart was heavy and sad, and tears were in her eyes. Presently she heard the front door open, and a step in the passage. Certainly she knew that step! Yes; her husband entered, with a smile upon his face. She saw it through her gathering tears, and her heavy heart leaped up. He came and put his arms around her neck, and kissed her; and said to her, in broken accents, “Darling, I have come home to throw down the burden I took away with me this morning. It is greater than I can bear.” And she, trying to speak, pillowed her head upon his bosom, and sobbed and wept like a child. “Oh! could he forgive her?”42His coming with the blessed offering had thrown the burden of reproach back upon herself. She saw him noble and generous, and she worshiped him. But Clarence would not allow her to take all the blame. He must share that. “We will share it so evenly,” said he, “that its weight shall be felt no more. And now, my darling, we will be happy!” Mr. Wardle had no need, when Clarence returned to the counting-house, to ask the result. He read it in the young man’s brimming eyes, and in the joy-inspired face. It was a year after this—and Clarence Spencer had become a partner in the house—that Mr. Wardle, by accident, referred to the events of that gloomy morning. “Ah,” said Clarence, with swelling bosom, “that was the most blessed lesson I ever received. My wife knows who gave it to me.” “And it serves you yet, my boy?” “Ay, and it will serve us while we live. We have none of those old burdens of anger to bear now. They cannot find lodgment with us. The flash and jar may come as in43other days,—for we are human, you know,—but the heart which has firmly resolved not to give an abiding-place to the ill-feeling, will not be called to entertain it. Sometimes we are foolish; but we laugh at our folly when we see it, and throw it off; we do not nurse it till it becomes a burden.” MAKE channels for the streams of love,
Where they may broadly run;
And love has overflowing streams
To fill them every one.
But if at any time we cease
Such channels to provide,
The very founts of love for us
Will soon be parched and dried.
For we must share, if we would keep
That blessing from above;
Ceasing to give, we cease to have—
Such is the law of love.
In one of the boxes sent to us by the Sanitary Commission,” writes a Christian worker in a Southern army-hospital, “was a patch-work quilt of unusual softness and lightness. When we opened it, we found a note pinned to it. It read as follows:— “I have made this Scripture quilt for one of the hospital beds, for I thought that while it would be a comfort to the poor body, it might speak a word of good to the precious soul; the words are so beautiful and blessed, and full of balm and healing! May it be blessed to the dear boys in the army, among whom I have a son.” “It was made of square blocks of calico and white cotton intermingled, and on every white block was written a verse from the Bible or a couplet from one of our best hymns. On the central block, in letters so large as to catch the careless eye, was that faithful saying, in which is our hope and45strength—‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.’ And below it the prayer of all prayers, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’ The head border, which would be nearest to the sick man’s eye, and oftenest read, had the sweetest texts of promise, and love, and comfort. Among them I read, ‘God so loved the world, that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish.’ ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ ‘Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters!’ ‘I sought the Lord, and he heard me, and delivered me from all my fears.’ ‘Oh,’ we said, ‘Oh that all our beds had such quilts! God will surely speak through these texts to the sick and wounded men! They will read them when they will read nothing else. Who knows how much good they will do!’ “It was not long before a man sick with pneumonia was brought in, and we put our new quilt on his bed. He noticed nothing at first, he was too sick; but when he grew better, I saw him intent on the texts. ‘Handy to have ’em here!’ he said, pointing to them as I stood near him. ‘You know how to value46them, then,’ I said. ‘I do,’ he answered, with heartiness. After that I saw many studying the quilt—almost all who lay beneath it. One poor fellow, who had tossed in pain and feverishness for several days, caught sight of the words, ‘And I will give you rest.’ He beckoned to me, and said, ‘Rest! where can I get it? Rest for body and mind, both! I am half mad—sick, as you see, but sicker—as no one can see. Tell me how to get rest!’ ‘Did you never hear of the way?—never hear of Jesus?’ ‘Tell me again.’ I told him the story of the cross. ‘Died for my sins?’ he asked. ‘Yes, yours. He saw you in your sins and pitied you, loved you, died to save you from sin and give you rest; to make you happy.’ ‘I have never been happy—never. I have been too wicked. And he really died for me? I never felt it before. It never seemed to me a real thing.’ ‘I hope you will come to feel it the most real thing. Have you seen the lines— “None but Jesus, none but Jesus,
Can do helpless sinners good?”
“It’s true. I know it is none but Jesus! I’ve tried everything else.” “I’ll go to Jesus, though my sins
Have like a mountain rose,”
I repeated. ‘I can’t go. I feel that I can’t do anything. I am here a very wretched man; and that is all.’ ‘Just leave yourself to God, then,— “Here, Lord, I give myself away,
’Tis all that I can do.”
‘That’s all you have to do.’ ‘Is that verse here?’ I showed it to him on the quilt. ‘I’ll keep it before me. Oh for rest! a little rest!’ he groaned again. Not long after he found it,—found peace in believing, and left his hospital bed, happier than he had ever been before. “An Irishman lay under the Scripture quilt. One day when nearly well, he was looking at it. ‘Is that radin?’ he asked, putting his finger on the text. ‘Yes.’ ‘Sure, and what does it say?’ I read, ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.’ ‘Ye might rade that,’ he said, pointing to another text. ‘I love them that love me, and they that seek me early shall find48me.’ ‘It is the Lord who says this,’ I added after the text. ‘Sure, it’s good to a lonesome pareson to hear what you rade.’ ‘So it is. There is no book like the Bible in dark and trying hours.’ “At last came the boy who had the best right to the comfort of our Scripture quilt,—the son, of whom the good woman who made it spoke in the note attached. It was a strange circumstance that he should have come to lie beneath it, but so it was. He had lain there nearly senseless for more than a week, when I saw him kiss the patch-work. I thought he might be wandering, or if not, had found a text of hope or consolation that seemed to suit his need, and marked with my eye the place he had kissed, to see what it was. It was no text, but a calico block, the pattern a little crimson leaf on a dark ground. He kept looking at it, with tears in his eyes, and I was almost sure his mind was wandering. Nay, he was never more in his right mind, and his thoughts were at home with his mother. A bit of the gown he had so often seen her wear had carried him back to her. He kissed it again. I approached him. He looked up, and smiled through his tears. “Do you know where this quilt came from?” he asked. ‘Some good woman sent it to us through the Sanitary Commission.’ ‘You don’t know her name, nor where it came from?’ ‘No, but I saved a note that was pinned to the quilt.’ ‘Would you be willing to let me see it some time when it is convenient?’ ‘Oh, yes. I’ll get it now.’ I got it for him; his hand trembled, and his lips grew white as he opened it and saw the writing. ‘Please read it to me quite slowly,’ he said, returning it. I read it. ‘It is from my mother; shall you keep it?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘I value it very much, and also the quilt.’ He put his hands over his eyes. I thought he wished to be alone, and left him. As I stood by his bed the next day, I was wondering if he had not seen his mother’s texts, as well as the bit of her gown. He had, and pointed one out to me. It was, ‘Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.’ ‘I am no more worthy,’ he whispered. I put my finger on the next white block, and read aloud, ‘When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran and fell on his neck,50and kissed him.’ As I looked up, I saw there were tears upon his cheeks, and his lips were tremulous. He covered his eyes, and I left him. A few days after, when he had grown much stronger, he held up to me the text I had shown him. ‘I was a great way off,’ he said, ‘but He has met me and had compassion on me.’ ‘You feel the Saviour’s love?’ ‘It fills me with peace. What love! What a Saviour!’ ‘Shall I not write to your mother and tell her that her son, who was dead, is alive again; was lost, and is found?’ ‘Will it not be too much trouble?’ ‘Oh, no, a pleasure instead.’ I wrote the blessed tidings, making the mother’s heart rejoice. And now our Scripture quilt was even dearer and more sacred than before.” Thy word is like a garden, Lord,
With flowers bright and fair;
And every one who seeks may pluck
A lovely nosegay there.
Thy word is like a deep, deep mine;
And jewels rich and rare51
Are hidden in its mighty depths,
For every searcher there.
Thy word is like the starry host:
A thousand rays of light
Are seen, to guide the traveler,
And make his pathway bright.
Thy word is like a glorious choir,
And loud its anthems ring;
Though many tongues and parts unite,
It is one song they sing.
Thy word is like an armory,
Where soldiers may repair,
And find, for life’s long battle-day,
All needful weapons there.
Oh, may I love thy precious word,
May I explore the mine,
May I its fragrant flowers glean,
May light upon me shine!
Tom Darcy, yet a young man, had grown to be a very hard one. Although naturally kind-hearted, active, and intelligent, he lacked strength of will to resist temptation, and had therefore fallen a victim to intemperance. He had lost his place as foreman of the great machine shop, and what money he now earned came from odd jobs of tinkering which he was able to do here and there at private houses; for Tom was a genius as well as a mechanic, and when his head was steady enough, he could mend a clock or clean a watch as well as he could set up and regulate a steam engine, and this latter he could do better than any other man ever employed by the Scott Falls Manufacturing Company. One day Tom was engaged to mend a broken mowing machine and reaper, for which he received five dollars; and on the following morning he started for his old haunt, the village tavern. He knew that his wife sadly needed the money, and that his two little children53were absolutely suffering for want of clothing, and that morning he held a debate with the better part of himself, but the better part had become weak, and the demon of appetite carried the day. So away to the tavern Tom went, where, for two or three hours, he felt the exhilarating effects of the alcoholic draught, and fancied himself happy, as he could sing and laugh; but, as usual, stupefaction followed, and the man died out. He drank while he could stand, and then lay down in a corner, where his companions left him. It was almost midnight, when the landlord’s wife came to the bar-room to see what kept her husband up, and she quickly saw Tom. “Peter,” said she, not in a pleasant mood, “why don’t you send that miserable Tom Darcy home? He’s been hanging around here long enough.” Tom’s stupefaction was not sound sleep. The dead coma had left his brain, and the calling of his name stung his senses to keen attention. He had an insane love of rum, but he did not love the landlord. In other years, Peter Tindar and himself had wooed the same54maiden,—Ellen Goss,—and he had won her, leaving Peter to take up with the sharp-tempered damsel who had brought him the tavern, and Tom knew that lately the tapster had gloated over the misery of the woman who had once discarded him. “Why don’t you send him home?” demanded Mrs. Tindar, with an impatient stamp of her foot. “Hush, Betsey, he’s got money. Let him be, and he’ll be sure to spend it before he goes home. I’ll have the kernel of that nut, and his wife may have the husk.” Betsey turned away, and shortly afterward Tom Darcy lifted himself up on his elbow. “Ah, Tom, are you awake?” “Then rouse up and have a warm glass.” Tom got upon his feet and steadied himself. “No; I won’t drink any more to-night.” “It won’t hurt you, Tom—just one glass.” “I know it won’t!” said Tom, buttoning up his coat by the solitary button left. “I know it won’t!” And with this he went out into the chill air of midnight. When he got away from55the shadow of the tavern, he stopped and looked up at the stars, and then he looked down upon the earth. “Ay,” he muttered, grinding his heel in the gravel, “Peter Tindar is taking the kernel, and leaving poor Ellen the worthless husk,—a husk more than worthless! and I am helping him to do it. I am robbing my wife of joy, robbing my dear children of honor and comfort, and robbing myself of love and life—just that Peter Tindar may have the kernel, and Ellen the husk! We’ll see!” It was a revelation to the man. The tavern-keeper’s speech, meant not for his ears, had come on his senses as fell the voice of the Risen One upon Saul of Tarsus. “We’ll see!” he said, setting his foot firmly upon the ground; and then he wended his way homeward. On the following morning he said to his wife, “Ellen, have you any coffee in the house?” “Yes, Tom.” She did not tell him that her sister had given it to her. She was glad to hear him ask for coffee, instead of the old, old cider. “I wish you would make me a cup, good and strong.” There was really music in Tom’s voice, and the wife set about her work with a strange flutter at her heart. Tom drank two cups of the strong, fragrant coffee, and then went out,—went out with a resolute step, and walked straight to the great manufactory, where he found Mr. Scott in his office. “Mr. Scott, I want to learn my trade over again.” “Eh, Tom, what do you mean?” “I mean that it’s Tom Darcy come back to the old place, asking forgiveness for the past, and hoping to do better in the future.” “Tom,” cried the manufacturer, starting forward and grasping his hand, “are you in earnest? Is it really the old Tom?” “It’s what’s left of him, sir, and we’ll have him whole and strong very soon, if you’ll only set him at work.” “Work! Ay, Tom, and bless you, too. There is an engine to be set up and tested today. Come with me.” Tom’s hands were weak and unsteady, but his brain was clear, and under his skillful supervision57the engine was set up and tested; but it was not perfect. There were mistakes which he had to correct, and it was late in the evening when the work was complete. “How is it now, Tom?” asked Mr. Scott, as he came into the testing-house and found the workmen ready to depart. “She’s all right, sir. You may give your warrant without fear.” “God bless you, Tom! You don’t know how like music the old voice sounds. Will you take your old place again?” “Wait till Monday morning, sir. If you will offer it to me then, I will take it.” At the little cottage, Ellen Darcy’s fluttering heart was sinking. That morning, after Tom had gone, she found a dollar bill in the coffee-cup. She knew that he left it for her. She had been out and bought tea and sugar, and flour and butter, and a bit of tender steak; and all day long a ray of light had been dancing and glimmering before her,—a ray from the blessed light of other days. With prayer and hope she had set out the tea-table, and waited; but the sun went down and no Tom came. Eight o’clock—and almost nine. Hark! The old step! quick, strong, eager for home. Yes, it was Tom, with the old grime upon his hands, and the odor of oil upon his garments. “I have kept you waiting, Nellie.” “I did not mean to, but the work hung on.” “Tom! Tom! You have been to the old shop!” “Yes, and I’m bound to have the old place, and ——” And she threw her arms around his neck, and pressed a kiss upon his lips. “Nellie, darling, wait a little, and you shall have the old Tom back again.” “Oh, I have him now! God bless you, my husband!” It was a banquet, that supper—with the bright angels of peace, and love, and joy, spreading their wings over the board. On the following Monday morning, Tom resumed his place at the head of the great machine shop, and those who thoroughly knew him had no fear of his going back into the slough of joylessness.59A few days later, Tom met Peter Tindar on the street. “Eh, Tom, old boy, what’s up?” “I am up, right side up.” “Yes, I see; but I hope you haven’t forsaken us, Tom?” “I have forsaken only the evil you have in store, Peter. The fact is, I concluded that my wife and little ones had fed on husks long enough, and if there was a good kernel left in my heart, or in my manhood, they should have it.” “Ah, you heard what I said to my wife that night?” “Yes, Peter; and I shall be grateful to you for it as long as I live. My remembrance of you will always be relieved by that tinge of warmth and brightness.” Some time ago, Mrs. Levy, a lady in London, was looking for a girl to help in doing her housework. One day while walking in the street she met a friend, and asked if she knew of any good girl that she could engage. Said her friend, “Why do n’t you get one of Aunt Betsey’s children?” “Aunt Betsey’s children? Pray who is Aunt Betsey?” “She is an old Scotch woman who lives in Bird’s Alley. She adopts poor homeless children, takes care of them, teaches them, and after training them properly, finds good places for them. I have had one of her children for some time, and she is the best girl I ever had.” “That is very singular,” said Mrs. L. “This woman must be a curiosity. I would like to see her. I’ll go.” The next day Mrs. Levy went to Bird’s Alley to find Aunt Betsey’s home. She entered it, and saw a large, tidy-looking room.61The floor was as clean as hands could make it. In the room were eight or nine girls from three to fifteen years of age. They were all busy. Some were ironing, others were sewing or knitting, and the youngest were twisting up slips of paper to make lamp-lighters. While she was looking at them, an elderly Scotch woman entered. She wore a plain gingham dress, with a white apron, and a large, broad-frilled cap. As she made a courtesy to the lady, her face lighted up with a smile that made it look quite beautiful. “I am looking for a girl, my friend,” said Mrs. Levy, “and your home has been recommended to me as a good place to get one. Are these your children?” “Oh, no! ma’am, I am not so rich as that. But let me see; there’s Lizzie, she’s been here long enough for a recommend. She’s a strong, hearty girl, ma’am, and never will trouble you with any mean, low ways. Come here, Lizzie. Now look into her face, ma’am. That’s how I choose my children.” “Then, are none of them yours?” “Never had one in my life, ma’am,” said Aunt Betsey with a smile. “You are paid, then, for taking care of these children, and providing them with a home?” “Not a stiver, ma’am; who’s to pay me? They are all poor orphans; not one of them has a father or mother except me, and I am both to them, they think,” she said, as she looked around affectionately at them. “Sometimes I feel half sorry that I took the wee things, but what could I do? They had honest parents as was taken off with heavy sickness, and I could n’t see them suffer. True, it’s but little I can do, for there are thousands of such poor creatures in the world, but I’ll do what I can. I’ve put thirty-one into good places.” “What!” cried Mrs. Levy, “do you mean to say that you have taken care of and provided for thirty-one children besides these that are here now?” “Yes’m, and the Lord’s blessed me to do it with my own hands, for more than fifteen years back. I’ve never wanted, neither have they; and whether it’s knack in me or goodness in them, I don’t know; but they’ll all mind me, that they will, ma’am, with lifting up a finger.” What a beautiful sheltering cloud Aunt Betsey was! She was working for Jesus, all alone in that little alley, while nobody in the busy world knew what she was doing. But God knew it all. Without husband, or children of her own, without any church or committee to help her, without any means but what she earned with her own hands, she had been a kind guardian and teacher to thirty-one poor children, besides the eight or nine then in her house. She had clothed, fed, and taught them according to the best of her ability, and then had found them homes, where they could be useful and happy. Toil on, O Christian worker,
Sow precious seed each day;
Fear not, nor be discouraged;
Still work, and trust, and pray.
Some little seed thou droppest
Will find a genial soil;
Some germs will doubtless flourish
To crown thy faithful toil.