Further Efforts.
AFTER the conversation in which Maria’s father sought to convince her that she really hated God, Maria did not take as much pleasure as she had taken in thinking of God. She could not see why his holiness and justice were so essential to his glory, or why a Being less strict would not be entitled to as much love and reverence. But she did not think any worse of herself. It seemed to her that God had become less lovely, instead of her having just learned that she did not love Him. Of the desperate wickedness of her heart she as yet knew nothing, but was soon to learn it by painful experience.
One day her father on returning home found Maria in tears. “What is the matter, my dear?” inquired he. Maria sobbed more violently than before, but did not reply.
Her mother said that Maria had been angry with George, and had taken from him one of her books with so much violence as to hurt him. Her father looked much concerned, but did not speak for some time, during which Maria, who dreaded nothing so much as her father’s displeasure, was overwhelmed with shame and distress. At length he said:
“Maria, when you committed a similar fault last week, I told you that, as you were a reasonable being, I preferred governing you by reason to restraining you by fear. I explained to you the effects of giving way to your temper, and told you how much more difficult it would be to acquire self-control some years hence than now. I think you promised me then to make an effort to govern yourself, was it not so?”
“Yes, papa,” sobbed Maria; “I meant to try, and I thought when you talked to me so kindly that I should never be angry again all my life. I did try a little while, but I forgot it again, and—and—”
“But, my dear child, how can I place any confidence in your promises? you have so often broken them.”
“I know it, papa, I cannot tell what is the reason. If I am ever so sure of not doing wrong again, the very next day I forget it all, and do the same things.”
“I can tell you the reason, Maria; it is that wicked heart of your; about which I have told you so often.”
“I don’t see that I can help myself then, papa.”
“You must first feel that you are to blame, that it is your own fault you cannot do better; and then as a lost sinner you will come to Christ and be saved. Your efforts have not succeeded, because they have been made in your own strength; and while you depend on yourself you never will succeed.”
“Papa, do you suppose that if I tried as hard as I could I couldn’t keep from being angry myself?”
(Smiling.) “I thought, my dear, you had already tried as hard as you could!”
(Blushing.) “Well, papa, — you know—but—”
“But you think you could do a little more yet if you should try your utmost. Well, dear, I do think that you cannot keep from any sin without God’s help.”
“Not for one day, papa?”
“Not for one moment.”
“Oh, papa, you know I might shut myself up in a room alone, and not speak or move the whole day.”
“That would be nothing to the purpose; you would still sin.”
“How, papa?”
“The word of God as much forbids sinful thoughts and feelings as words and actions, and you would have abundant opportunity for these in your retirement. But, setting aside thoughts and feelings for the present, you will not be able to spend a day without committing some outward fault, unless you have the assistance of the Holy Spirit.
Maria’s pride took fire at this, remark. She felt sure that she was not quite so bad as that. She would certainly be good for one day, and she had been before now. She did not say this to her father, for she was afraid he would say something about self-conceit; but he read it in her countenance.
“I see,” said he, “that you do not believe me. Well, dear, try for yourself. The depravity of the heart is a truth which each one must learn for himself, and it is learned only by repeated vain efforts, under the teaching of the Spirit of God.”
As to Maria, she had not forgotten her previous failures; but, with the self-deception often practiced by the unrenewed heart, she flattered herself that she could still do more. Her pride was mortified at the idea of acknowledging her dependence, and she determined to try her utmost for one day at least.
The next morning Maria slept later than usual, and the domestic who came to wake her found some difficulty in doing it. She was a good-natured girl; but this morning, being in haste, and finding it impossible to wake Maria by speaking, she took hold of her and shook her somewhat roughly. This, it must be confessed, is not very pleasant, and Maria did not relish it at all.
“Let me alone!” said she, peevishly; “I shan’t get up half so soon for your shaking me so.”
“Your father and mother are up, and breakfast is almost ready,” said the girl.
The mention of her father fortunately reminded Maria of her resolution, and roused her effectually. Somewhat ashamed, she rose silently, and endeavored to recall what she had said, and ascertain whether she had broken her resolution. On the whole, she concluded that it might “go for nothing,” particularly as she had been half asleep when she spoke. So, with a determination to be doubly watchful, she went down to breakfast. After breakfast and prayers were over, Maria, as usual, sat down by her mother to sew for an hour. She was not fond of needlework, and the hours allotted to this employment were usually regarded with great disgust, unless when her mother rendered them less tedious by relating a story. This morning there could be no story and no conversation, for her mother had letters to write. To make amends for this privation, Maria foolishly indulged herself in thinking how “nice” it would be if she had no work to do, and could read story-books all day long; or, if she were a nobleman’s daughter, and had servants to wait upon her, and a carriage to ride in, and a beautiful palace and garden of her own. Maria did not consider that these vain and foolish imaginations only rendered her real situation more disagreeable to her.
She was so engrossed by them that her work was nearly half finished before she perceived that she was sewing on the wrong side.
“Oh, dear, what a shame!” she exclaimed. “Mamma, I shall have to pick out all I have done.”
Her mother looked, said she was very sorry, but told Maria she should not speak so impatiently; she had no one to blame but herself. The best thing she could do now was to be cheerful and good-tempered about it.
But Maria did not feel at all disposed to be cheerful or good-tempered. She began discontentedly to undo the work of the morning, saying it would take the whole forenoon, and she should not be able to read a word. She did not forget her resolution this time; the recollection had sufficient force to restrain her from any further utterance of her feelings, but not to prevent her indulging them. She twitched the thread, and pulled the work in every direction; however, at last, making a virtue of necessity, she applied herself in earnest, and the task was completed. She could not quite decide whether the day was lost; “to be sure she felt impatient for a moment, and who would not?” but she soon got over it.
When her mother had finished writing, she cut an orange in two pieces, directing Maria to take one and give the other to George. One of the pieces was a little larger than the other, and Maria, saying to herself, “I am the largest child, and so ought to have the largest piece,” took this and gave the other to George. She acted from the selfish impulse of the moment, but the next moment her conscience reproved her; she looked up to see if her mother had observed it; she had evidently done so, though she said nothing, and Maria felt mortified and vexed.
“I may as well give up trying for today,” thought she. “How foolish I was, just for a little piece of orange! To be sure it is nothing very bad, but”— the recollection of the morning occurring to her— “I believe the day is spoiled, I will try again tomorrow.”
Maria felt as some children do when they have made a blot in their writing-books— “Oh, it’s no matter how the rest of this page is written, we will hurry it off, and do the next better.” So, as she had “given up trying,” she seemed to feel herself at liberty to do just as she pleased.
It would occupy too much time to detail each of Maria’s trials and the result—they all issued in complete failure; never was she able, with unalloyed satisfaction, to recall the events of the day. Either she had spoken disrespectfully to her mother, or impatiently to George, or she had been disobliging, selfish, or in some other way had yielded to temptation. One reason why she was so frequently disappointed may be found, perhaps, in the fact that she never continued her efforts more than two or three days together. By this time she generally became uneasy, and relapsed into her usual habits of inattention and carelessness.
At these repeated failures, she was, however, surprised and vexed. What could it mean? Sometimes she found an answer to this question in the peculiar circumstances of her transgression, which seemed to offer some palliation. At others she bestowed on herself all manner of harsh epithets, for her carelessness and folly. At the same time if anyone else had applied to her the same titles, she would have been highly offended. Neither was she disposed to acknowledge her dependence and need of Divine strength. On the contrary, she only became more determined to conquer at each repetition of her attempts, for her pride was enlisted in the contest, and pride is marvelously persevering.
Poor Maria thought she had never met with half so many temptations and difficulties as now, when she was trying to be good. It seemed as if everybody and everything were conspiring against her. In this she was, perhaps, correct; since, if she was to be taught experimentally the sinfulness of her heart, temptations might be necessary to developed it. Many have, doubtless, succeeded in effecting an outward reformation on the same principles of pride and self-righteousness with which Maria commenced her efforts; but how much better to be taught by disappointment our need of a new life, and of strength from above, than to build on a self-righteous foundation, and perish at the last.
Maria had by this time so much experience of her inability to do right, that her understanding and conscience were convinced of her need of Divine assistance. But, as we have observed, this conviction did not produce humility, or in the least affect her heart, which was still proud and unreconciled to God. She regarded herself as rather unfortunate than guilty; as one who was making the greatest efforts to do right, but was prevented by her wicked heart, — a something in her view quite distinct from herself.
However, as she now felt willing in words to acknowledge her dependence, she supposed that this was all her father had desired. “Papa was right,” thought she, “in saying I could not be good without God’s strength: but now I am convinced of this I will pray to Him every day.”
She felt as if there was something very meritorious in making this acknowledgment, and as if God would be under obligations to her for praying to him. Of course, she supposed that her prayer would be answered immediately, and that all difficulties would now vanish before her.