Evening at Home 69
Presently, the different services began. The church resounded with the
solemn organ, and with the indistinct murmurs of a large body of people
following the minister in responsive prayers. From the meeting were
heard the low psalm, and the single voice of the leader of their
devotions. The Roman Catholic chapel was enlivened by strains of music,
the tinkling of a small bell, and a perpetual change of service and
ceremonial. A profound silence and unvarying look and posture announced
the self-recollection and mental devotion of the Quakers.
Mr. Ambrose led his son Edwin round all these different assemblies as a
spectator. Edwin viewed everything with great attention, and was often
impatient to inquire of his father the meaning of what he saw; but Mr.
Ambrose would not suffer him to disturb any of the congregation even by
a whisper. When they had gone through the whole, Edwin found a greater
number of questions to put to his father, who explained everything put
to him in the best manner he could. At length says Edwin:—
“But why cannot all these people agree to go to the same place, and
worship God the same way?”
“And why should they agree?” replied his father. “Don’t you see that
people differ in a hundred other things? Do they all dress alike, and
eat and drink alike, and keep the same hours, and use the same
diversions?”
“Ay—but those are things in which they have a right to do as they
please.”
“And they have a right, too, to worship God as they please. It is their
own business, and concerns none but themselves.”
“But has not God ordered particular ways of worshipping him?”
“He has directed the mind and spirit with which he is to be worshipped,
but not the particular form or manner. That is left for every one to
choose, according as suits his temper and opinions. All these people
like their own way best, and why should they leave it for the choice of
another? Religion is one of the things in which _mankind were made to
differ_.”
The several congregations now began to be dismissed, and the street was
again overspread with persons of all the different sects, going
promiscuously to their respective homes. It chanced that a poor man fell
down in the street in a fit of apoplexy, and lay for dead. His wife and
children stood round him crying and lamenting in the bitterest distress.
The beholders immediately flocked round, and with looks and __EXPRESSION__s
of the warmest compassion, gave their help. A Churchman raised the man
from the ground by lifting him under the arms, while a Dissenter held
his head, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. A Roman Catholic
lady took out her smelling-bottle, and assiduously applied it to his
nose. A Methodist ran for a doctor. A Quaker supported and comforted the
woman, and a Baptist took care of the children.
Edwin and his father were among the spectators. “Here,” said Mr.
Ambrose, “is a thing in _which mankind were made to agree_.”
THE LANDLORD’S VISIT.—A DRAMA.
Scene—_A room in a farmhouse_. BETTY, _the farmer’s wife_; FANNY, _a
young woman grown up_; _children of various ages differently employed_.
_Enter_ LANDLORD.
_Landlord._ Good morning to you, Betty.
_Betty._ Ah!—is it your honour? How do you do, sir? how are madam and
all the good family?
_Land._ Very well, thank you; and how are you, and all yours?
_Bet._ Thank your honour—all pretty well. Will you please to sit down?
Ours is but a little crowded place, but there is a clean corner. Set out
the chair for his honour, Mary.
_Land._ I think everything is very clean. What, John’s in the field, I
suppose?
_Bet._ Yes, sir, with his two eldest sons, sowing and harrowing.
_Land._ Well, and here are two, three, four, six; all the rest of your
stock, I suppose.—All as busy as bees!
_Bet._ Ay, your honour! These are not times to be idle in. John and I
have always worked hard, and we bring up our children to work too.
There’s none of them, except the youngest, but can do something.
_Land._ You do very rightly. With industry and sobriety there is no fear
of their getting a living, come what may. I wish many gentlemen’s
children had as good a chance.
_Bet._ Lord! sir, if they have fortunes ready got for them, what need
they care?
_Land._ But fortunes are easier to spend than to get; and when they are
at the bottom of the purse, what must they do to fill it again?
_Bet._ Nay, that’s true, sir; and we have reason enough to be thankful,
that we are able and willing to work, and have a good landlord to live
under.
_Land._ Good tenants deserve good landlords; and I have been long
acquainted with your value. Come, little folks, I have brought something
for you.
[_Takes out cakes._
_Bet._ Why don’t you thank his honour?
_Land._ I did not think you had a daughter so old as that young woman.
_Bet._ No more I have, sir. She is not my own daughter, though she is as
good as one to me.
_Land._ Some relation, then, I suppose?
_Bet._ No, sir, none at all.
_Land._ Who is she, then?
_Bet._ (_whispering_). When she is gone out, I will tell your
honour.—(_aloud._) Go, Fanny, and take some milk to the young calf in
the stable.
[_Exit_ Fanny.
_Land._ A pretty modest-looking young woman, on my word!
_Bet._ Ay, sir—and as good as she is pretty. You must know, sir, that
this young woman is a stranger from a great way off. She came here quite
by accident, and has lived with us above a twelvemonth. I’ll tell your
honour all about it if you choose.
_Land._ Pray do—I am curious to hear it. But first favour me with a
draught of your whey.
_Bet._ I beg your pardon, sir, for not offering it. Run, Mary, and fetch
his honour some fresh whey in a clean basin.
[Mary _goes_.
_Land._ Now, pray, begin your story.
_Bet._ Well, sir—As our John was coming from work one evening, he saw at
some distance on the road a carrier’s wagon overturned. He ran up to
help, and found a poor old gentlewoman lying on the back much hurt, and
this girl sitting beside her, crying. My good man, after he had helped
in setting the wagon to rights, went to them, and with a good deal of
difficulty got the gentlewoman into the wagon again, and walked by the
side of it to our house. He called me out and we got something
comfortable for her; but she was so ill that she could not bear to be
carried farther. So after consulting a while, we took her into the
house, and put her to bed. Her head was sadly hurt, and she seemed to
grow worse instead of better. We got a doctor to her, and did our best
to nurse her, but all would not do, and we soon found she was likely to
die. Poor Fanny, her grand-daughter, never left her day or night; and it
would have gone to your honour’s heart, to have heard the pitiful moan
she made over her. She was the only friend she had in the world, she
said; and what would become of her if she were to lose her? Fanny’s
father and mother were both dead, and she was going with her grandmother
into the north, where the old gentlewoman came from, to live cheap, and
to try to find out some relations. Well—to make my story short, in a few
days the poor woman died. There was a little more money about her than
would serve to pay her doctor and bury her. Fanny was in sad trouble,
indeed. I thought she would never have left her grandmother’s grave. She
cried and wrung her hands most bitterly. But I tire your honour.
_Land._ O no! I am much interested in your story.
_Bet._ We comforted her as well as we could; but all her cry was, “What
will become of me? Where must I go? Who will take care of me?” So after
a while, said I to John, “Poor creature! my heart grieves for her.
Perhaps she would like to stay with us—though she seems to have been
brought up in a way of living different from ours, too; but what can she
do, left to herself in the wide world!” So my husband agreed that I
should ask her. When I mentioned it to her, poor thing! how her
countenance altered! “O,” said she, “I wish for nothing so much as to
stay and live with you! I am afraid I can do but little to serve you,
but indeed I will learn to do my best.” Said I: “Do no more than you
like; you are welcome to stay and partake with us as long as you
please.” Well, sir! she stayed with us; and set about learning to do all
kind of our work with such good-will, and so handily, that she soon
became my best helper. And she is so sweet-tempered, and so fond of us
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