at be of the contrary? Living men must
differ. Only the dead ne'er wrangle touching aught."

"Eh, Robin, man! `Live peaceably with all men.'"

"`As much as lieth in you.' Paul was wiser than you, saving your
presence."

"But, Robin, my son," said Mrs Rose, "I would not say only, for such
matters as men may differ in good reason. They cannot agree on the
greater things, _mon cheri_,--nay, nor on the little, littles no more.--
Look you, Mr Underhill, we have in this parish a man that call himself
a Brownist--I count he think the brown the only colour that is right; if
he had made the world, all the flowers should be brown, and the leaves
black: eh, _ma foi_! what of a beautiful world to live in!--_Bien_! this
last May Day, Sir Thomas Enville set up the maypole on the green.
`Come, Master,' he said to the Brownist, `you dance round the
maypole?'--`Nay, nay,' saith he, `it savoureth of Popery.' `Well,'
quoth he, `then you come to prayer in the church! There is nothing
against that, I trow?'--`Good lack, nay!' saith he, `'tis an idle form.
I cannot pray without the Spirit aid me; and the Spirit will not be
bounden down unto dead forms.' And so, Mr Underhill, they fall to
wrangling. Now, is it not sad? Not only they will not take their
pleasure together, but they will not say their prayers together no more.
Yet they all look to meet in Heaven. They will not wrangle and quarrel
there, I trow? Then why can they not be at peace these few days the
sooner?"

This was a long speech for Mrs Rose.

"Well, to speak truth," said Mr Underhill, "I could find in mine heart
to cry `Hail, fellow!' to your Brownist over the maypole: though I see
not wherein it savoureth of Popery, but rather of Paganism. Howbeit, as
I well know, Popery and Paganism be sisters, and dwell but over the way
the one from the other. But as to the Common Prayer being but a form,
and that dead,--why, I pray you, what maketh it a dead form save the
dead heart of him that useth the same? The very Word of God is but a
dead thing, if the soul of him that readeth it be dead."

A certain section of the laity are earnestly petitioning the clergy for
"a hearty service." Could they make a more absurd request? The heart
is in the worshipper, not in the service. And who can bring his heart
to it but himself?

"_Ma foi_!" said Mrs Rose, with a comical little grimace, "but indeed I
did think, when we were set at rest from the Queen Mary and her
burning