pected, the inexplicable; to look for flaws before we have realized merits and excellencies, to waste time in comparison and classification. Gradually and grudgingly we allow a contemporary to emerge and become in our minds the self he is - and then quarrel with him if he turns, as he continually must and should, another unforeseen aspect of his moon toward our sun. What is past is serene and secure, its dust is forever 'laid.' What is present in noisy and confused.

But courtesy to the living is (simply for our sake) no less necessary than reverence to the dead. Even, moreover, if an unconscionable quantity of the perishable is intermingled with an inextricably infinitesimal pinch of the immortal in our contemporary, that perishable, because it is a deposit of our own day, of our transitory modes, is worth some candid consideration. Far more we shall lose by giving too little of mere 'attention'. than by squandering too much. Even at that we are likelier to see our Shelleys plain than colored. Jealously guard by all means your extortionate standards, but breathe not only the quiet winds that haunt the dead. For my own part, I think we should deliberately read a good deal of indifferent, even bad, poetry (not bad verse). It has its own virtues or it would not be poetry at all. It may, alas, be amusing. It will irradiate the better.

As for what is contemporary - so rich and various and adventurous has been the poetry of the last two decades, that to ignore it, to decry it, to refuse it one's 'best attention' would be merely to quarrel with this merry month of May because not all its blossoms are likely to be 'immortelles.' A weathercock may be a proud but is hardly a useful fowl, if, in season and out of season, he crows always into the west.

Every man

ON FELLOW TRAVELERS

BY E. V. LUCAS

IT has been remarked that among the odd people who congest this globe none are odder than one's fellow railway passengers (who, in their turn, are probably entitled to make the same comment); and now that the augmented fares have had the effect of causing everyone to travel, our opportunities of testing the truth of this generality' become daily more favorable.

Roughly, fellow railway passengers may be divided into those who want to talk, and those who don't. There are then countless subdivisions, among which are: those who want to be seen off, and those who don't; those who like the windows open, and those who don't; those who stare, and those who don't; those who travel with children, and those who don't; those who cause the tunnels to smell of brandy, and those who don't; those who buy papers of their own, and those who borrow them; and those who know that the train will take them where they want to go, without changing, and those who don't. The list is by no means exhausted; but the first group is the most important because it is the talkers who have the greatest power to mar a journey. One can ignore the vagaries of the others, but the persistent talker is not to be disregarded, however absorbing one's novel may be, and particularly so when he sits on the opposite seat and has a roving and compelling eye, as he almost always has.

None the less, it is in trains that one overhears some of the best things. One must always remember that it was at the window of a railway carriage that a daughter, bidding her progenitor farewell, made use of the

words, 'My fond papa!' And Charles Keene would have been but half the national benefactor that he was, had all tongues in trains been tied.

Just now the compartment with the talkative soldiers in it is perhaps most to be avoided, because bless their hearts! there is nothing in an English landscape as seen from the windows that is incapable of reminding them of something in France; and, after that, everything is only too simple. There was a soldier in the train the other day who dribbled campaigning stories all the way from King's Cross to Grantham; rising to his greatest height just beyond Hitchin, where he caught sight of some German prisoners at work. 'There's old Fritz!' he cried. 'Look at him! But you never got me, you blighter, though you tried hard enough!' And a series of escapes from death took the place of a tedious analysis of the differences between 'vanrooge' and good old English beer.

It was, by the way, on the return journey from Grantham that I realized that not always is the child in the train wholly to blame. A young mother and a small girl were in the carriage, and at every stop the child, who was getting very weary, asked, more and more eagerly, 'Is this London?' On each occasion the mother replied that it was not, darling; but when we drew up at Finsbury Park for tickets to be collected, she made the mistake of her life by saying that it was. Owing to a collector shortage, we were a quarter of an hour at this station, and I can assure you that if that cherub said 'If this is London, why don't we get out?' once, she said it thirty times; and with perfect justification.

That mechanical nuisance, the rail

way wag, seems to be on the decline. At any rate, it is long since I saw any fresh sign of the old obliterative facetiousness which removed the 's' from 'seat,' so that each side of the compartment was made to 'eat five persons, or reduced until the train stops' to until the rain stops.' But once there were few carriages which had not been under this humorist's knife. Another railway character, who no doubt exists, I never have seen at all. I refer to the man who but I will tell you. There was a mixed discussion the other day upon the performers of actions which give distinction by their rarity, and I won by naming this personage. What, the argument ran, was the most uncommon thing which, in a normal sphere, any of us had done: that is to say, not in the jungle, not in Labrador or Tierra del Fuego, but where tall hats are worn, and offices attended. Well, this one had shaken hands with the King, and that had caught out Tom Hayward; this one had escaped from a house on fire, and that had arrested a burglar in his own dining room. But such deeds, though remarkable, are not unique: other men have clasped the regal fingers, and Tom Hayward is not exclusively bowled, or run out, or stumped, or given (very unfairly), leg before; while fires and burglaries are of too constant occurrence. Hence it was I who beat them all by saying that I had once stopped a train by pulling the communication cord. I had n't, of course, but it carried the day. Not only was it untrue of myself; but I have never met anyone of whom it was true, or who was in a train when such a thing happened.

Land and Water

THERE is no more important division in English life than the gulf between the Church and Nonconformity. It dominates much of our thinking and practice in social matters and in education, as well as in religion. As the typical Nonconformist sees it, on the one side are the fearless champions of liberty and pure religion, on the other side is comfortable respectability, lukewarm in spiritual things, associated in politics with landlords and other vested interests. The spirit which is symbolized by the Westminster statue of Oliver Cromwell with his good sword and his Bible is opposed to the spirit fittingly expressed by the squire slumbering in his pew. And as the typical Churchman sees it, the refined saintliness which is the fine flower of Anglicanism, the spirit of Dean Church and Archbishop Laud and Lancelot Andrewes, stands faced by the successful grocer who needs a Little Bethel in which his aggressive personality may uplift itself. There is sufficient truth in both estimates to remind us that no Christian community can claim that all the truth and all the grace are in itself. Catholic and Protestant, Churchman and Nonconformist, are debtors to each other. Anglicans, justly proud of their own heritage, dare not deny what they owe to John Bunyan and George Fox, to Samuel Rutherford and the Wesleys, to Martineau and James Drummond, and to other saints and divines and scholars of Protestantism. A recent book, The Church in the Furnace, dedicated by Anglican Chaplains in France to the Church that they are

proud to serve, and to their fellow chaplains of the English Church who have died during the war, has on the title-page a quotation from John Oman, a distinguished living Presbyterian thinker. And in a recent number of the Winchester Diocesan Gazette the clergy of that diocese are advised to read a book by a prominent Congregationalist preacher, Dr. W. E. Orchard, of the King's Weigh House. It is a thing to thank God for that His truth is larger than our divisions and that in spite of them we have the grace to learn from one another.

Between entities so complex as Anglicanism and so heterogeneous as Nonconformity the clearest distinctions must tend to shade off into mere differences of emphasis. The English Church has the 'Historic Episcopate,' and Nonconformity is without it. But some Anglican writers, including at least one living bishop, are prepared to argue, and to act, on the assumption that episcopacy is, indeed, important and desirable, and has proved itself an efficient instrument of Church government, but cannot be insisted on as essential, in the sense that without it a Christian denomination cannot claim to be part of the Church Catholic. On the other hand, the Moderator of a Presbyterian General Assembly, and the President of a Methodist Conference, fulfill many of the functions, and enjoy much of the prestige, of a bishop. Similarly, if we say that the English Church is, in spirit and in organization, rather Catholic than Protestant, while the prime motive of Nonconformity

has been antagonism to traditional religion, especially as embodied in Rome, we must, nevertheless, remember that there are thousands of loyal Church people who glory in the name of 'Protestant,' while the last two years have seen the rise of an anti-Protestant movement among Free Church ministers and lay people, who publish a magazine called The Free Catholic, and whose favorite methods of worship and devotion are as far as can be from historic puritanism.

To all who pray for the corporate and visible reunion of Christendom the comprehensiveness of the Church of the English' is profoundly significant. Adverse critics may say that the Church only reflects the Englishman's incurable passion for compromise; one writer has described the fellowship of Catholic and Protestant in one communion as 'Queen Elizabeth's shandygaff.' But the Anglican Church stands as a visible proof of the fact that Catholic and Protestant can lie down together in one fold. She is an earnest and a prophecy of the reunited Christendom which shall yet be accomplished.

Nevertheless, the essentially Catholic character of the English Church, as compared with the Nonconformist bodies, appears in many ways. Most comprehensively, it can be seen in the characteristic emphasis and ideal of religious activity of the two parties. The Anglican, like the Roman, lays great stress on reverence and devotion and awe, on mystery, and its expression in sacrament and music and symbol. He is familiar with the idea of a 'consecrated building'; he is quite at home with the thought that some particular material object - the altar, for example is especially sacred. To him the worship of God, and the adoring love of Christ, are of incomparable importance, as ends in themselves. But the Nonconformist, on the other hand,

in the true spirit of Protestantism, when it is aware of its real meaning, lays almost exclusive emphasis on the ethical side of Christianity. He applies a practical test to all religious activity. Worship-what we call 'Divine Service' - is, to the Protestant, only important as a preparation and inspiration for that true divine service which consists in a moral life. The spirit which is characteristic of pure Protestantism is the spirit of the Epistle of St. James. Pure and undefiled religion in the sight of God the Father is this, to help the orphans and widows in their trouble.' The contrast between Catholicism and Protestantism has been delineated beforehand by our Lord Himself in the Parable of Mary and Martha -the contrast between mysticism and efficiency.

It goes without saying that a combination of these two attitudes is necessary for a full religion. As St. Teresa said, 'To give our Lord a perfect hospitality, Mary and Martha must combine.' We must give a moral interpretation to all our religion; our theology must be ethical: 'The temple of Christ is the hearts and lives of men.' That is to say, we need the contribution of Protestantism at its best. But we need also a mystical sanction and elevation for all our philanthropy: 'For Thy Sake' is the famous stone that turneth all to gold: the kingdom of joy and justice which men ought to serve is the Kingdom of God.' This exaltation of ethics into the mystical sphere is the characteristic contribution of Catholicism at its best. And it needs to be emphasized at the present time.

Similarly, Anglicanism and Nonconformity represent competing ideals of public worship. The ideal of ceremonial richness stands opposed to that of careful simplicity. The full Anglican ideal is seen adequately expressed in such a service as the sung Eucharist in

the Chapel of the Resurrection at Mirfield. There everything is arranged to give fitting external expression to the corporate worship of the congregation. The building, noble though unfinished, the ornaments of the sacred ministers, the altar, the incense, the lights, the Plainsong setting of the Liturgy, the ceremonial carefully carried out according to the historic English Use, all combine to form a richly expressive symbol of the adoring Church offering herself, in union with the Eternal Sacrifice of her exalted Head, a 'reasonable, holy, and lively Sacrifice' unto God.

The Nonconformist, of course, dislikes all this; he suspects it when he does n't hate it. Forms and ceremonies seem to him very dangerous. They militate against the true worship of the heart, spontaneous, free, reasonable, a worship 'in spirit and in truth.' His ideal is a worship as little external as possible, in which the spirit of man shall commune with God in perfect simplicity. The dignity and beauty of the Book of Common Prayer seem to him to have no advantage over the 'free prayer,' sometimes homely to the verge of familiarity, of his own minister. And the Elizabethan language of our book seems to make our services cold and unreal. All that you need, he will tell you, is 'the right spirit,' the spirit of penitence and trust; mere forms do not matter at all.

Let us recognize, frankly, that there is real danger of formalism in Anglican ceremonial. It is possible to 'read prayers,' without praying. It is possible to have all the externals of Catholic worship, without the communion of the soul with God. But formality is not entirely unknown in Protestant services, even in those circles where worship is most formless. The silence of a Quaker meeting is not always filled with the consciousness of God's presence; it is sometimes cold, and dead,

and empty. The Spirit bloweth where it listeth.

We may admit that there is greater danger of formality where much attention is given to externals, than where it is concentrated on the interior reality. Because there is more 'form,' more 'body,' in Anglican than in Puritan worship, there is more of it to be a corpse, so to speak, if the Spirit is absent. But this can only be counted a conclusive argument in favor of puritanism if we ignore the real challenge and inspiration of elaborate ceremonial. If Catholic worship succeeds, it is more wonderful, more valuable, than Puritan worship, just as its failure is the more obvious and irreligious if they both fail. But if the full ceremonial of the Holy Sacrifice is the crowning expression and chief inspiration of sacrificial lives and of their fellowship with the atoning Life of Christ, if that is its reality, then it has a wealth of exalted meaning that no Protestant service can rival. No man can habitually attend High Mass (unless he is content to let it be a meaningless form, or unless his religion is on the pagan level where a sacrifice is offered to God which has no union with the lives of those who worship), without finding a continually repeated challenge and inspiration to a life of self-offering which shall be a fitting background and matrix for such an act of worship.

The ideal of simplicity in public worship has, nevertheless, its own value. There is a Quaker in the heart of each of us, something that finds in stillness and silence the means of spiritual communion. The 'Fellowship of Silence' enjoyed and described by Canon Hepher and those associated with him, Anglicans and Friends, and practised now by groups of people all over the world, is helping the modern Church to re-discover and to re-appropriate for itself, on its own level and for the satis