ON THE WATCH.
“Struggling in the world’s dark strife,
Man requires, ere parting thence,
Pardon for the holiest life,
For the purest—penitence.
Helpless all—a Power above
Saving strength alone can give,
Sinners all,—a God of love
Only bids the guilty live!
From polluted works we flee,
Lord, to hide ourselves in Thee!”
It was a sunny afternoon in April. In a rustic arbour at the end of the
garden, garlanded with honeysuckle and clematis, through the interstices
of whose bright, young leaves came the smiling sunshine, and the soft
breath of Spring, sat Ida and Mabel Aumerle. This arbour was a favourite
retreat of the girls; thither they carried their books and their work;
and could the clustering shrubs around it have had a voice, much could
they have told of sweet converse held together by the sisters, and that
free interchange of thought which is one of the dearest privileges of
friendship.
“Ida, dearest,” said Mabel, “shall I tell you what Uncle Augustine said
of you to-day when you left the room after prayers? He said, ‘Ida is a
noble girl, and has no fault except that of being too good.’ Papa smiled
and shook his head gently; Mrs. Aumerle gave her odious, little shrug!”
“Uncle Augustine does not know my heart,” said Ida.
“But I know it if any one does, and I am sure that uncle himself cannot
think more highly of you than I do.”
“You are partial,” replied her sister with a smile.
“I only wish that I were like you! I know I’m a proud, wayward girl,
and shall never reach heaven unless I am better. I often make good
resolutions, but somehow”—Mabel looked down sadly as she spoke,—“somehow
they break away like thread in the flame! I wonder if I shall ever be
really holy.”
Ida laid down the muslin which she was working, and drawing closer to her
young sister, said in a gentle tone, “You speak, dearest, of being holy
and reaching heaven; of making good resolutions and not being able to
keep them,—as if the impression were on your mind that you have to form,
as it were, a ladder of good works, by which to reach a certain difficult
height, beyond which lie the regions of glory.”
“That’s just it,” said Mabel sadly, “and I am discouraged because I
always find that my ladder is too short; that climb as I may, I never can
reach the height that you do.”
“I threw away my ladder long ago,” said Ida clasping her hands; “I found
that every round in it was broken!”
“O Ida, what do you mean? I am certain that you have never ceased to do
good works daily.”
“I would no more use them,” exclaimed Ida, “as _a means of reaching
heaven_, than I would hope, by aid of yonder fragile clematis, to climb
to the bright sun or stars! No,” she continued, her lip trembling with
emotion as she spoke, “I would put those works which you call good, to
the only use for which they are fit; if the fire of love kindle the
broken, imperfect fragments, I may humbly offer upon them a sacrifice
of thanksgiving to Him through whom alone I have hope of reaching the
heavenly heights.”
“But, Ida, I can hardly yet see how _every round_ on the ladder of good
works is broken. I am sure that some—at least of _yours_, must be very
pleasing to God.”
“Let us examine them closely,” replied Ida, “let us fix upon what you
consider the very best of our works, and let us see if it could, even for
a moment, in itself support the weight of a soul.”
Mabel considered for a little, and then said, “Perhaps the best of our
works is prayer.”
“We shall not need much examination, I fear, to find that our prayers are
cold, wandering, insincere.”
“Cold sometimes, yes,—but—”
“And sadly wandering,” added Ida; “at least I am sure that I feel mine
to be so. O Mabel! I have often reflected that if an angel could write
down all the thoughts that flow through our minds while we kneel in
the attitude of prayer,—the foolish fancies, the idle dreams, the vain
selfish imaginations which mix with our earnest supplications, we should
be so shocked and disgusted at such a mockery of devotion, that with
penitence and shame we should implore that our prayers themselves should
be forgiven!”
“Yes; they are cold and wandering,—but I am sure that mine are not
insincere.”
“I am afraid that we sometimes ask for blessings which we have no earnest
desire to obtain. Do we not sometimes pray to be delivered from pride
and uncharitableness, when at the time we are fostering these enemies as
welcome guests in our hearts? Have we fully entered into the spirit of
that prayer which we have so often uttered:—
‘The dearest idol I have known,
Whate’er that idol be,
Help me to tear it from thy throne,
And worship only Thee?’
If we were quite certain that such prayers would be granted _directly_,
would we not sometimes be afraid to breathe them, and is there then no
insincerity in having them so frequently on our lips?”
“O Ida!” exclaimed Mabel, with a sigh; “you look a great deal too closely
into the heart! If our very prayers be full of sin, what must our worldly
actions be? The most disagreeable duty in the world is this searching
for hidden evil, this dreadful self-examination! I am sure that a great
many good people never practise it, and are much happier for their
ignorance of themselves.”
“What should we say, dear one, of a man of business who refused to look
into his books, lest he should find the balance against him? of the owner
of a dwelling who should be content to keep one room swept and cleansed,
leaving all the rest, with locked doors and closed shutters, to darkness
and pollution? what should we think of the governor of a castle, who
should pace proudly along the battlements, careless whether a lurking foe
had not penetrated to the heart of the fortress?”
“I should certainly think the two first fools, and the third a traitor to
his trust,” replied Mabel. “But, Ida, this self-examination only makes us
miserable! If I find every round in my ladder broken, and have my fierce
enemy behind me, and before me the heights which I shall never be able to
reach,—what can I do but sit down and despair?”
“You forget, you forget,” cried Ida, with animation, “the bright golden
cord which is let down to you from above. We cannot climb to heaven by
our good works; but faith, living, loving faith, can grasp the means
of salvation held out by a merciful Saviour. The more helpless we feel
ourselves, the more eagerly we cling to our only sure hope. Mabel, this
is the glory of the Gospel. It humbles the sinner, but exalts the
Saviour; it shows us that we can do nothing in ourselves, yet can do all
things through Him who loved and gave himself for us!”
Mabel made no reply in words, but she drooped her head till it found
its resting-place on a sister’s bosom. An arm was gently drawn around
her, and Ida imprinted a silent kiss on her brow. The demon Pride stood
gloomily aloof; he felt himself baffled for a time, and dared not intrude
his presence on the sisters during the remainder of that peaceful day!