"But it won"t look so pretty on the chimney-piece. I am sure, if I had known that it was not really purple, I should not have wished to have it so much."
"But didn"t I tell you that you had not examined it, and that perhaps you would be disappointed?"
"And so I am disappointed indeed. I wish I had believed you beforehand. Now I had much rather have the shoes, for I shall not be able to walk all this month: even walking home that little way hurt me exceedingly. Mamma, I"ll give you the flower-pot back again, and that purple stuff and all, if you"ll only give me the shoes."
"No, Rosamond, you must abide by your own choice; and now the best thing you can possibly do is to bear your disappointment with good-humor."
"I will bear it as well as I can," said Rosamond, wiping her eyes, and she began slowly and sorrowfully to fill the vase with flowers.
But Rosamond"s disappointment did not end here: many were the difficulties and distresses into which her imprudent choice brought her before the end of the month. Every day her shoes grew worse and worse, till at last she could neither run, dance, jump, nor walk in them. Whenever Rosamond was called to see anything, she was pulling up her shoes at the heels, and was sure to be too late. Whenever her mother was going out to walk, she could not take Rosamond with her, for Rosamond had no soles to her shoes; and at length, on the very last day of the month, it happened that her father proposed to take her and her brother to a gla.s.s-house which she had long wished to see. She was very happy; but, when she was quite ready, had her hat and gloves on, and was making haste downstairs to her brother and father, who were waiting at the hall door for her, the shoe dropped off; she put it on again in a great hurry; but, as she was going across the hall, her father turned round.
"Why are you walking slipshod? no one must walk slipshod with me. Why, Rosamond," said he, looking at her shoes with disgust, "I thought that you were always neat. Go, I cannot take you with me."
Rosamond colored and retired. "Oh, mamma," said she, as she took off her hat, "how I wish that I had chosen the shoes! they would have been of so much more use to me than that jar: however, I am sure--no, not quite sure--but I hope I shall be wiser another time."
DIFFERENCE AND AGREEMENT; OR, SUNDAY MORNING
Dr. John Aiken and Mrs. Anna Let.i.tia Barbauld
It was Sunday morning. All the bells were ringing for church, and the streets were filled with people moving in all directions.
Here, numbers of well-dressed persons and a long train of charity children were thronging in at the wide doors of a large, handsome church. There, a smaller number, almost equally gay in dress, were entering an elegant meeting-house. Up one alley, a Roman Catholic congregation was turning into their retired chapel, every one crossing himself with a finger dipped in holy water, as he went in. The opposite side of the street was covered with a train of Quakers, distinguished by their plain and neat attire and sedate aspect, who walked without ceremony into a room as plain as themselves, and took their seats, the men on one side, and the women on the other, in silence. A s.p.a.cious building was filled with an overflowing crowd of Methodists, most of them meanly habited, but decent and serious in demeanor; while a small society of Baptists in the neighborhood quietly occupied their humble place of a.s.sembly.
Presently the different services began. The churches 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 slow 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 a.s.semblies 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 congregations even by a whisper. When they had gone through the whole, Edwin found a great number of questions to put to his father, who explained everything 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 G.o.d the same way?"
"And why should they agree?" replied his father. "Do not 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 G.o.d as they please. It is their own business, and concerns none but themselves."
"But has not G.o.d ordered particular ways of worshiping him?"
"He has directed the mind and spirit with which he is to be worshiped, but not the particular form and 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 expressions of the warmest compa.s.sion, 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 a.s.siduously 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_."
EYES, AND NO EYES; OR, THE ART OF SEEING
Dr. John Aiken and Mrs. Anna Let.i.tia Barbauld
"Well, Robert, where have you been walking this afternoon?"
said Mr. Andrews to one of his pupils at the close of a holiday.
_R_. I have been, sir, to Broom Heath, and so around by the windmill upon Camp Mount, and home through the meadows by the river side.
_Mr. A_. Well, that"s a pleasant round.
_R_. I thought it very dull, sir; I scarcely met with a single person. I had rather by half have gone along the turnpike road.
_Mr. A_. Why, if seeing men and horses is your object, you would, indeed, be better entertained on the high road. But did you see William?
_R_. We set out together, but he lagged behind in the lane, so I walked on, and left him.
_Mr. A_. That was a pity. He would have been company for you.
_R_. O, he is so tedious, always stopping to look at this thing and that! I had rather walk alone. I dare say he is not got home yet.
_Mr. A_. Here he comes. Well, William, where have you been?
_W_. O, sir, the pleasantest walk! I went all over Broom Heath, and so up to the mill at the top of the hill, and then down among the green meadows by the side of the river.
_Mr. A_. Why, that is just the round Robert has been taking, and he complains of its dullness, and prefers the high road.
_W_. I wonder at that. I am sure I hardly took a step that did not delight me, and I brought home my handkerchief full of curiosities.
_Mr. A_. Suppose, then, you give us some account of what amused you so much. I fancy it will be as new to Robert as to me.
_W_. I will, sir. The lane leading to the heath, you know, is close and sandy, so I did not mind it much, but made the best of my way. However, I spied a curious thing enough in the hedge. It was an old crab-tree, out of which grew a great bunch of something green, quite different from the tree itself. Here is a branch of it.
_Mr. A_. Ah! this is mistletoe, a plant of great fame for the use made of it by the Druids of old in their religious rites and incantations. It bears a very slimy white berry, of which birdlime may be made, whence its Latin name of _viscus_, It is one of those plants which do not grow in the ground by a root of their own, but fix themselves upon other plants; whence they have been humorously styled parasitical, as being hangers-on or dependants. It was the mistletoe of the oak that the Druids particularly honored.
_W_. A little further on I saw a green woodp.e.c.k.e.r fly to a tree, and run up the trunk like a cat.
_Mr. A_. That was to seek for insects in the bark, on which they live. They bore holes with their strong bills for that purpose, and do much damage to the trees by it.
_W_. What beautiful birds they are!
_Mr. A_. Yes; they have been called from their color and size, the English parrot.
_W_. When I got upon the open heath, how charming it was! The air seemed so fresh, and the prospect on every side so free and unbounded! Then it was all covered with gay flowers, many of which I had never observed before. There were at least three kinds of heath (I have got them in my handkerchief here), and gorse, and broom, and bell-flower, and many others of all colors, that I will beg you presently to tell me the names of.
_Mr. A_. That I will readily.