like the “uncommunicating muteness of fishes;” and you wonder how it is kept up.  To those who believe in solemn reticence—­in motionless communion with the “inner light,”—­there is nothing curious in this; it is, in fact, often a source of high spiritual ecstacy; but to an unitiated spectator the business looks seriously funny, and its 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 hold between 500 and 600 persons; but it might be gratifying to the shades of its chemistry-loving, cubic-feet-of-air-admiring designers, for they would at any rate have the lively satisfaction of knowing that none of the famous 32 would suffer through want of breathing space.  The members of the congregation came in at various times; four were there at half-past six; the remainder had got safely seated, in every instance, by ten minutes to seven.  All the males made their appearance with their hats on; some pulled them off the moment they got seated; two or three seemed to get their convictions gradually intensified on the subject, and in about ten minutes came to the conclusion that they could do without their hats; some who had cast aside their castors at an early period reinstated them; whilst odd ones kept on their head