“You’ll find our Lydia a child after your own heart, Martin,” said Captain Neill, a retired officer, to his elder brother, who had lately returned from India.
“She seems to be a quick, intelligent girl,” answered Mr. Neill, in a less enthusiastic tone.
“She is that, and a great deal more!” cried the father. “It is wonderful to see the good that child does! From cottage to cottage she goes, reading, talking—really like a grown-up woman; it would surprise you were you to hear her.”
“Perhaps it would,” said his brother, a pale, reserved man, with dark, thoughtful eyes, and a face on which love to God and good-will to man seemed to have set their stamp.
“Certainly, dear Lydia is a very uncommon child,” lisped Mrs. Neill from the sofa, to which long and tedious, though not dangerous illness had confined her for several months.
“You see,” pursued the captain, “we’ve no child but Lydia, so we’ve devoted all our care to our pet.”
“An only child runs some danger of being spoilt,” observed Mr. Neill, with a smile.
“Yes, yes, but we never spoil ours,” answered the father, quickly.
“Oh, dear, no!” said the lady, from the sofa.
“We have always from the first taught Lydia her duty; and I must say that we’ve found her an apt pupil,” continued the captain. “Would you believe it—though she is just twelve years old, that child has twice read through the Bible, and has started on the third reading of her own ac-cord!”
The partial father looked into his brother’s face, expecting to see depicted there admiration and surprise. There was, however, no expression of the kind. Perhaps Mr. Neill was thinking that one verse of the Holy Scriptures, treasured in the heart, might do more for the soul than the whole Bible read hastily over for the sake of boasting that so much had been done.
“And then her charity,” recommenced Captain Neil; but he was interrupted by the entrance of a fine-looking girl, who came in with a quick step and self-possessed manner, her checks glowing beneath her white hat from the exercise which she had been taking.
“Where have you been, my darling?” asked her father.
“Oh, round by the mill, and as far as the seven cottages. Poor Jones is getting worse and worse; his wife says that he cannot last long. I tried to get Mrs. Brown to send all her children to school, but she tells me they can’t go in such rags. I’m about to make a parcel of my old clothes, my green dress, and a lot of other things—”
“But, my dear,” said Lydia’s mother, “that dress was quite new this spring; I don’t wish—”
“I’m tired of it,” interrupted Lydia; and seeing that her mother was about to speak, she cut her short by a decided, “I hate green dresses, and I’m not going to wear it again.”
The mother looked vexed, but said nothing. “You’ve had a long round, my darling; sit down and rest,” said Captain Neill, kindly.
“I’m not tired, and would rather stand,” replied Lydia, in her short, decided manner, as she flung her hat back on her shoulders, and shook the curls from her heated face. Then, turning to her mother, she said, “Whom do you think I met on the way? All the Thomsons on ponies. I wish I had a pony, too, I should so enjoy riding about.”
“Could we afford it, you should have one,” said her father, who, though very fond of riding, had never mounted a horse since he had quitted the army. It pained him that his child should ever form a wish which he had not the power to gratify.
“I don’t see why the Thomsons should ride when we walk!” observed Lydia, with a little toss of the head. “We are as good as they any day. Their mother was no fine lady, I’ve heard, and they say in the village that Mr. Thomson is deep in debt, and will have to sell his fine house.”
“People say ill-natured things, my love; I would not repeat them,” observed Mrs. Neill, mildly.
Lydia looked annoyed at the gentle reproof, and began humming an air to herself, to show that she did not mind it.
“Have you written the notes as I desired you, my dear?” asked the sick mother, after a silence.
“No, I’ve been busy, and shall be busy all day; I’ll write them to-morrow,” replied Lydia, sitting down, and carelessly opening a book.
“Did you carry your missionary subscription to the Vicarage?” asked the captain. “My girl ke-eps a collection box,” he added, smilingly turning towards his brother to explain.
“No; I did not,” replied Lydia, shortly.
“And why? for the clergyman told us he was anxious to send in the subscriptions directly.”
“I would rather wait till I have collected more,” answered Lydia. “The Barnes had one pound nine in their box.”
“But we cannot attempt to compete with the Barnes, my love; we can give but little, but we give it cheerfully.”
“I will wait till I have collected more,” repeated Lydia. “I should be ashamed to send in less than my neighbors.”
“It is a great privilege to be able to help a good cause,” said the captain, again addressing his brother. “My girl does not content herself with gathering money; she gives her work, which is something better. Her little fingers were busy for the fancy fair held for our schools: she made two bags and seven purses—”
“Four bags and eight purses,” interrupted Lydia, “and six round pincushions besides. The Char-ters did not furnish so much, though there are three of them to work. But they are such an idle set of girls, and I don’t think they care about schools.”
“Four bags and eight purses, to say nothing of the pincushions; pretty well for one little pair of hands!” said the captain, turning again to his brother, in expectation of an approving smile or word; but no smile was given, no word was uttered. Lydia glanced at her uncle in surprise, but could not understand the almost sad expression on her relative’s kind face. Could she have read his thoughts, they would have run somewhat as follows:
“It is clear that these fond parents are content with their child, and that the child is content with herself; she has enough of the sweet poison of flattering praise without my pouring out more from a selfish desire to make myself a favorite here. My brother thinks his Lydia perfect, and believes that the soil, cultivated with tender care, is already covered with a glorious harvest. But what is it that eyes less blinded by partial affection see there? In ten minutes I have unwillingly beheld the weeds of pride, selfishness, and disobedience, a disposition to evil speaking, coveto-usness, and a silly thirst for praise. Small indeed the faults now appear, as weeds scarce showing above the soil; but it is evident that the roots are there, and I fear that the harvest will be different indeed from what my brother expects. What shall I do? Speak openly to him? I fear that the only result would be to wound—perhaps to offend him; he would think me unjust or severe, and retain his own opinion. I must gain some quiet opportunity of speaking a word to Lydia herself; she is an intelligent, sensible girl; but I can see too plainly by her manner toward her mother that nothing will be welcome to the young lady that comes in the shape of reproof. My conscience will not suffer me to leave my niece to her blind security; I will make at least an attempt to open her eyes to the truth.”
The party now dispersed—Lydia to take off her hat and cape; the two gentlemen to visit a fri-end. During their walk, Captain Neill could scarcely discourse on any subject but that of his daughter. He told anecdote after anecdote, which had been treasured up in his affectionate heart; but his conversation only served to convince Mr. Neill that Lydia, brought up in a pious family, had acquired but a sort of hothouse religion, that could stand no blast of temptation. He felt that though his niece might do many things that were certainly proper and right, she only did them when they suited her pleasure; her proud will was yet unbroken—her impatient temper unsub-dued.
In the evening, Mr. Neill was sitting alone in the little study, when Lydia entered the room. The girl was anxious to please her uncle, of whose character she had heard high praise, and whose gentle, courteous manner was well suited to win young hearts.
“I like him,” thought Lydia, “and I will make him like me.” So approaching Mr. Neill, and la-ying her hand on the back of his chair, she said in her most pleasing manner, “Can I do anyt-hing for you, dear uncle?”
“Yes, my dear, you can read the Bible to me; I shall be glad of the help of your young eyes, for mine have suffered from the climate of India.”
“I will read with pleasure,” said Lydia, taking up the Bible; and she spoke no more than the truth. She was glad to do a kindness to her uncle, but was more glad still of an opportunity of showing him how beautifully she could read aloud.
“Do you wish any particular chapter?” she inquired.
“Pray, begin the twenty-second chapter of St. Matthew.”
In a tone very clear and distinct, Lydia commenced her reading—
“And Jesus answered, and spake unto them again by parables, and said, ‘The kingdom of hea-ven is like unto a certain king, which made a marriage for his son, and sent forth his servants to call them that were bidden to the wedding; and they would not come. Again, he sent forth other servants, saying, Tell them which are bidden, Behold, I have prepared my dinner; my oxen and my fatlings are killed and all things are ready; come unto the marriage. But they made light of it, and went their ways, one to his farm, another to his merchandise; and the rest laid hold on his servants, and treated them spitefully, and slew them. But when the king heard thereof, he was wroth; and he sent forth his armies, and destroyed those murderers, and burned up their city.’”
“Do you understand the meaning of the parable?” asked Mr. Neill.
“Yes,” replied his niece, looking up from her book; “the Jews, to whom the invitation of the gospel was first sent, in their pride, would not accept it, but rejected and slew the Lord, and so-me of His faithful servants; and so the armies of the Romans were sent to take and to burn Jeru-salem. The command was given that the gospel should be preached to every creature, as we hear.” And Lydia proceeded to read aloud:
“’Then saith he to his servants, The wedding is ready, but they which were bidden were not worthy. Go ye therefore into the highways, and as many as ye shall find, bid to the marriage. So those servants went out into the highways, and gathered together all, as many as they found, both bad and good; and the wedding was furnished with guests.’”
“’And when the king came in to see the guests, he saw there a man which had not on a wed-ding-garment: he saith unto him, Friend, how earnest thou in hither, not having a wedding-garment? and he was speechless. Then said the king to the servants, Bind him hand and foot, and take him away, and cast him into outer darkness; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth. For many are called but few are chosen.’”
“Was it not strange,” said Mr. Neill, “that a poor man, taken from the common highway, should be expected to be found in a wedding-garment at the feast of the mighty king?”
“No,” replied Lydia, without hesitation, “for it was the custom in the East to provide wedding-garments for the guests, and this man must, through pride, have refused to accept one, thinking his own dress good enough to wear.”
“And what is the deeper—the spiritual meaning of this parable?” inquired her uncle.
“The merits of our Lord form the wedding-garment, which all must wear who would enjoy the feast of heaven. If we try to appear in our own righteousness, we shall be cast out like the mise-rable man of whom we have just been reading.”
“You have been well-instructed in the Bible, Lydia.”
The girl colored at the praise, and said, “I ought to know it well, for I read four chapters every day, and a great deal more on Sundays, and can repeat hundreds of verses by memory.”
“And yet,” observed Mr. Neill, “there is a wide difference between head-knowledge and heart-knowledge, between understanding the meaning of the Scriptures, and making their truths our own. I suspect that many of us fall unconsciously into the error of the man in the parable, and fancy that there is something in ourselves to make us acceptable in the presence of our Heavenly King. When you came into the room, Lydia, my mind was dwelling upon the very subject, and I was forming a little allegory, or story, about the garment of human merits.”
“I wish that you would tell me your allegory,” said Lydia; “I often make such stories myself.”
“Close the Bible, and place it on the table, my child, and you shall know what thoughts were suggested to my mind by the parable of the wedding-garment.”
Lydia obeyed and listened with some interest and curiosity to this, the first story which she had ever heard from the lips of her uncle. Mr. Neill thus began:
“Ada was a bright young creature, brought up in a happy and a holy home, where, almost as an infant, she had been taught to pray, and where Scripture had been made familiar to her from the earliest dawn of reason. Ada was an invited guest to the feast of the great King, and she had accepted the invitation. She knew that she must appear in His courts robed in righteousness not her own, a garment provided by the Lord of the feast, spotless, holy, and white.”
“But Ada had a friend, or rather let me term her an enemy, in a companion named Self-love, whose society was so delightful to the girl that they were constantly found together. It was wonderful to behold the influence quietly exerted by Self-love over the mind of her young com-panion. She joined Ada in her amusements, assisted at her studies, went with her wherever she went, even to the cottages of the poor, even to the house of prayer. But Self-love was treac-herous as well as pleasing; her influence was never exerted for good; her one great object was to draw Ada away from religion, and cause her to be rejected at the great banquet, to which Self-love never herself could be admitted.”
“’Is it not hard,’ whispered Self-love one night, ‘that all the guests at the banquet are to wear the same kind of dress, whatever their former character or station may have been? I can well believe that poor wanderers from the highways, and beggars from the street, will be glad enough to lay aside their rags, and wear the garments provided; but you have a white robe of your own, fit to be worn in any palace, even the robe of innocence, embroidered all over by your hands with the silver blossoms of good works. How often has the world admired you in it! How it has been praised by your family and friends! It would, at least, form a beauteous addition to what you must wear at the banquet of Heaven.”
“Ada turned her eyes towards the robe of which Self-love had spoken, which was spread out on a table before her. Very beautiful indeed, and very white, it appeared to the admiring eye of the girl. Hundreds of delicate silver flowers, work of charity, faith, and obedience, glittered in the light of a large flaring torch which Self-love had placed beside it. The robe was studded with innumerable pearls, which Ada knew to be her prayers, so that nothing could seem more splen-did than the robe which Ada had prepared for herself.”
“I suppose,” interrupted Lydia, “that this Ada was really a very excellent girl. I do not wonder that she was unwilling that so lovely a robe should be laid entirely aside, and not be worn at all at the banquet.”
“Ada listened and looked,” continued Mr. Neill; “and the more she looked and listened, the mo-re she regretted that ragged beggars should one day be clothed in just the same manner as the possessor of a garment so fine. ‘I almost think that I might wear both,’ she murmured, half al-oud; ‘I might appear in my own beauteous robe, and if my dress should be not quite complete, the King’s mantle would cover all defects.’”
“’Ada, Ada!’ whispered a voice in the air. The girl started and gazed around, but no human form was to be seen.”
“’Ada, my name is Conscience,’ continued the voice, ‘and my accents fall not on the ear; they are heard in the depths of the heart. I have read thy thoughts, I know thy desires, and I come unto thee with a message. If thou, for but one day, canst keep thy garment quite white and fair, thou mayest wear it with joy and honor. But thou must see it by sunlight, and not by torchlight, and thine eyes must be anointed with Self-knowledge,—a salve which thou shalt find close to thy Bible when thou lookest on it first in the morning.’”
“’Be content, Ada,’ said Self-love, with a smile, ‘a single day is no long time of trial, and thou hast hitherto kept thy garment so fair, that thou hast small reason to fear a stain.’”
“The first thing that Ada did in the morning was to anoint her eyes with the golden salve which, as Conscience had promised, she found lying close to her Bible. She resolved not to look at her robe till a part of the day should be over, and then to examine it closely, to see whether the smal-lest speck or stain had sullied its pearly whiteness.”
“Had I been Ada, I should have been very careful in my conduct on that day,” observed Lydia, with a smile.
“So Ada determined to be. She resolved to crowd it with fresh good works. She read double her usual number of chapters, was very long at her prayers, though it must be confessed that all the time that she was perusing God’s holy Word, or making show of pleading with her Maker, her thoughts were wandering in every direction—now to her birds, now to her new book, now to her plans for the morrow, and now, alas! resting with bitterness upon some affront received from a neighbor. While Ada read or knelt, a dim, misty stain was slowly spreading over her white garment; that which she believed to be a merit, in God’s eyes was full of sin.”
“But Ada was not always in the quietness of her own room; she had to go forth and mix with others. She determined to visit a great many poor people, and do a great deal of good; but she lost her temper twice before she set out. First, with the servant, for keeping her waiting while preparing some broth for a poor invalid; then with her mother for sending her to change her dress for one of coarser material, as it seemed likely to rain. That half-hour of peevish impatien-ce left its mark on the beautiful garment.”
“Oh, uncle, such trifles could never be counted,” exclaimed Lydia.
“Life is made up of trifles, Lydia, and especially the life of a child. But to return to the story of Ada. On her way to the cottages, she met with a companion, a silly, frivolous girl, and they en-tered into such conversation as that which is known by the name of gossip. They spoke not of the beauties of nature, or the wonders of art, or of the deeper things of God; they spoke of their neighbors, and their neighbors’ affairs, and the ill-natured remarks, silly jests which they made, were certainly not such as beseem the lips of youthful Christians. Ada was very amusing and very merry; but her face would have worn a graver expression had she but seen how, at each foolish and unkind word, there fell a speck, as if of ink, on the folds of her beautiful garment.”
“A carriage, splendid and gay, drove past the girls, as, heated and tired, they walked along the dusty road. Ada knew the young ladies within, and, as she returned their bow, thoughts of dis-content, covetousness, and envy possessed the mind of the girl.”
“’How hard it is to walk when others are rolling in their carriages,’ was the secret reflection of Ada. ‘I wonder why things are so unequal. I’m sure we’ve a better right to comforts than those girls, whose father made all his money by manufacturing tapes and bobbins.’ Ada expressed not her thoughts aloud; but she fostered and indulged them in her heart, and deeper and duller grew the stain that clouded her beautiful garment.”
“Uncle, uncle,” exclaimed Lydia, who now perceived pretty clearly that Ada represented herself, “I think that you are hard on your heroine. It is almost impossible to govern our words, and quite impossible to control our thoughts.”
“If so,” replied Mr. Neill, “would the Bible have contained such verses as these, ‘Keep thy ton-gue from evil, and thy lips from speaking guile,’ ‘Covetousness, let it not once be named amongst you, as becometh saints; neither filthiness, nor foolish talking, nor jesting, which are not convenient’? When our Lord declared what doth defile a man, evil thoughts were the first things mentioned, the sin that cometh from the heart.”
Lydia looked grave, and was silent.
“Ada paid many visits, read the Bible in several cottages, and returned home with a comfortable persuasion that she had passed a most useful morning. She felt herself wonderfully better than the ignorant creatures who had listened with admiring attention to the words of ‘the dear young lady.’ Ada was impatient to look at her robe, and could not, as she had at first intended, wait till evening before she did so. What was her astonishment and distress when she cast her gaze on the treasured garment! With the salve of Self-knowledge on her eyes, she could no longer flatter herself that it was anything approaching to white. A dull, dirty hue overspread it; it was besp-rinkled here and there with dark and unsightly stains. Poor Ada was so badly disappointed, that she could scarcely restrain her tears, till Self-love whispered, ‘It is somewhat soiled, it must be owned, yet see, it is embroidered all over with the silver flowers of good works.’”
“Yes, that was some consolation,” murmured Lydia.
“Then again the low voice of Conscience was heard, piercing the inmost soul, ‘Ada, Ada! there is indeed a blessing on works done for the love of God; precious and bright is such silver. But while man sees our actions, God sees our motives, and tarnished with sin is the work, be it ever so good in itself, which is done from vainglory, emulation, or self-pleasing.’ As the words were uttered, to Ada’s dismay she beheld every one of her silver flowers become tarnished and dull; some, indeed, less so than others; but not one remained that retained its brightness, while some appeared actually black.”
“Poor Ada had nothing left but her pearls, her prayers,” observed Lydia, with something like a sigh.
“Nay, the pearls shared the fate of the flowers. What is the worth of prayers uttered from habit, or fear, or love of praise, prayers with which the heart has nothing to do? The pearls appeared pearls no longer, but dull, discolored, unsightly beads.”
“Oh, what a wretched discovery!” cried Lydia.
“Self-knowledge showed Ada something besides,” pursued Mr. Neill, without looking at his niece as she spoke. “On bending over her garment, Ada perceived many large rents, which se-emed to grow in number and size the longer she examined the robe. Again was heard the whis-per of Conscience—’These are thy sins of omission, neglected opportunities of serving God, acts of kindness or obedience left undone, a tender mother’s wishes disregarded, duties put off in order to gratify the idle whims of self-love.’”
Lydia remembered the notes which she had put off writing for so long that her sick mother had that morning done the little business herself. This had been but one of a series of trifling neg-lects for which Lydia had never before felt self-reproach; for she had not reckoned them to be sins. Tears started into her eyes, and she wished that the story would come to an end.
“’I can never wear this,’ exclaimed Ada; ‘it would take me months to repair these rents.’ As she spoke she bent down to lift the garment that she might examine it more closely; to her astonish-ment, the whole fabric came to pieces in her hands. The moth of Pride had fretted the garment, and not only was it tarnished and stained, but no sound piece was to be found in the whole of the once goodly robe.”
“Oh, I can’t bear this story of yours,” exclaimed Lydia; “it is one to put us all in despair.”
“If it puts us in despair of ourselves, my child,” replied Mr. Neill, laying his hand gently on the arm of his niece, “it will prove a story not without profit.”
“Ada seemed such a good girl at first, and you have made all her righteousness fall to pieces in the end! How could any one go to a banquet in such soiled and miserable rags?”
“The knowledge of our helplessness and sin, Lydia, is beyond measure precious to our souls. While we wrap ourselves in our fancied merits, while we nourish a secret hope that we can stand before a holy God in the garment of our own poor works, we will never earnestly and thoroughly seek for the grace which alone can save. Let us ask for the gift of self-knowledge, that we may see that we are in His sight.”
“Self-knowledge only makes us miserable,” exclaimed Lydia, whose pride had been deeply wounded.
“It would be so indeed, were it not united to knowledge of the blessed Redeemer; if the same Bible which shows us that our fancied righteousness is but as a moth-eaten rag, did not show us, also, the spotless robe washed white in the blood of the Lamb, prepared for the meek and lowly in heart who come to the banquet of heaven. Let this then, dear child, be our constant pra-yer to the Giver of good— ‘Lord, show me myself—my nothingness, my sin. Lord, show me Thyself—Thy holiness, Thy love. Pour Thy Spirit into my heart; let it rule my lips and my life, and clothe me in the robe of righteousness, even the merits of my blessed Redeemer.’”
