continuance for any length of time causes the mind of such a one to
run in all kinds of dreadfully ludicrous grooves.

Quakers don't believe in singing, and have no faith in sacred music
of any kind. Neither the harp, nor the sackbut, nor the psaltery,
nor the dulcimer will they have; neither organs nor bass fiddles
will they countenance; neither vocalists nor instrumentalists, nor
tune forks of any size or weight, will they patronise. They permit
one another to enter and remain in their meeting house with the hat
on or off, and with the hands either in the pockets or out of them.
They have no regular ministers, and allow either men or women to
speak. None, except Quakers and Ranters--the two most extreme
sections of the religious community, so far as quietude and noise
are concerned--permit this; and it is a good thing for the world
that the system is not extended beyond their circles. If women were
allowed to speak at some places of worship they would all be talking
at once--all be growing eloquent, voluble, and strong minded in two
minutes--and an articulative mystification, much more chaotic than
that which once took place at Babel, would ensue. At the meeting
house in Friargate it is taken for granted that on Sundays the
morning service lasts for an hour and a half, and the evening one an
hour and a quarter; but practically the time is regulated by the
feelings of the worshippers--they come and go as they are "moved,"
and that is a liberal sort of measure harmonising well with human
nature and its varied requirements.

We have paid more than one visit to this meeting house. The other
Sunday evening we were there. The congregation at that time numbered
just thirty-two--fifteen men, twelve women, two boys, and three
girls. This was rather a small assemblage for a place which will