Why no, brother, says Will, it is not a monastery so I don't mean that: but we have such a world of ceremonies and religious doings among us, it is enough to weary a body off their legs. I'm sure I shall never endure it long.

Tom. Perhaps you are sooner tired with these religious doings, brother, that you speak of, than you would be with other things. Is not that it, brother Will? Speak honestly.

Will. Nay, I do not know much about it, I confess. It don't signify much, I suppose, but to torment us.

Tom. Nor do you mind it much, I suppose, when you are at it, brother, do you?

Will. No, indeed, not I. I take care to get a good sleep all the while, if I can.

Tom. Fie upon you, Will.

Wall. Why, what does it signify to me?

Tom. What, their prayers, brother?

Will. Aye, their prayers.

selves, not for me, do they?

Why, they pray for them

Tom. No doubt they pray for you too.

Will. I don't care whether they do or not.

Tom. Nay, there I think you are wrong, brother Will. Should we not be glad to have any body pray for us? I

remember at church there are bills sent in for the ministers to pray for folks; they would not put up bills to be prayed for, if it was of no signification.

Will. Aye, that's when they are sick, brother; but what's that to me? I am well enough, and it is but when they desire it. Now I never desired them to pray for me; what need they trouble their heads about me in their prayers?

Tom. Well, but, brother, you say they pray for themselves, why should you be against that?

Will. Not I; but then they may do it by themselves, can't they? What need they keep us up at night, and raise us up in the morning? Can't they let us alone? We

work hard enough all day, they ought to let us sleep at night, sure.

Tom. Why do they take up so long time at it?

Will. Aye, I think it is long for us that work hard at our business all day. Here we are haled out of our beds every morning by six o'clock, to come to prayers, before we open the shop, or go into the work-house; and at night we are kept up, I know not how long, to read and go to prayers, when we might be all a-bed and asleep. I tell you it is a mere monastery, I cannot endure it.

Tom. Well, but, brother, I remember one thing by the bye. It seems this can't be much trouble to you; for you acknowledge you sleep all the while, if you can, so that you do not lose so much of your rest.

Will. Aye, that's true, but that can't be always. Besides, every now and then they catch me at it, and then there is such a noise with them. Then there is our master's son, he is such a religious monkey, he is always jogging a body, that I can't get a good sleep for him. But this is not all, brother, we have abundance of strange doings of this kind besides going to prayers.

Tom. But hark you, brother Will, about calling you up in the morning, let me hear that again; you say your master calls you up by six o'clock in the morning to come to prayers.

Will. Yes; and that is I say, just as they do in the monasteries. I know it is so, for I had a cousin that was a nun, and made her escape out of the nunnery, and she is turned Protestant; and she used to tell me they were obliged to rise at such hours in the night to go to prayers, I wonder my master don't do so too. I don't question but in a little time he will, and we shall be all monks instead of clothiers.

Tom. But, brother Will, you must do your master justice now; for, if I mistake not, you wrong him very much by your own account, as I was going to say.

Will. How, brother? I don't wrong him at all.

Tom. Why, you suppose of him he takes the time he spends in those religious things out of your sleep, or out of the time when you ought to be in bed; and you think it an injury to you, because you work hard. Pray what time do your hired journeymen come to work in the morning.

Will. At six o'clock.

Tom. Well, and do they exactly go to work by six o'clock.

Will. At six o'clock.

Tom. Yes, brother; but then you say your master does not call you up till six, and then he goes to prayers; now, if he did not go to prayers, he would go to work, and you could not expect but to be at work, who are his appren. tice, as well as the journeymen; so that the time he spends at prayers he takes out of your working time, and not out of your sleeping time; and the loss is his own, not your's. I think there you do your master wrong,

brother.

Will. What care 1 whose time it is? I wonder what need there is for making such a pother, 1 am as tired as a dog with it. I warrant they don't do so at your house.

Tom. Our house, Will! No, indeed, we are not troubled with it. I never heard a chapter read, or a word spoke of prayer, since I came into the house; and that's as much my uneasiness, as this is your's.

Will. You are very happy, brother; I wish I had been in such a place.

Tom. I cannot be of your mind, brother; what makes you talk so wickedly?

Will. What do you mean by wickedly? I say you are happy that you are not tormented as I am.

Tom. Aye, Will; but at the same time all this that torments you is, that your master calls you up in the morning, and keeps you up at night to do your duty, and what you ought to love, I mean to go to prayers, and the like.

Will. Why, aye, is not that torment enough? What do you tell me of their prayers and duty? I desire none of it, not I.

Tom. You make me tremble, Will. I am frighted at you.

Will. Frighted! what at?

Tom. Why, if I should talk as you do, I should be afraid the devil would take me away alive. Do you know what you are talking of?

Will. Yes, sure, I speak plain enough.

Tom. Why, is not all you complain of nothing but serving God, as you are commanded to do? and are we not all to do so too, if we would be saved?

Will. Pr'ythee, Thomas, don't thou talk Gospel too; I ben't against their serving God, not I.

Tom. But you an't for doing it yourself though, and you speak contemptibly of the thing itself.

Will. I don't know what belongs to it, not I. What need they make such ado about it?

Tom. About what, Will! what about serving God? Will. No, about their saying so many prayers.

Tom. You are mighty uneasy, methinks, about saying your prayers. Is not that serving God? I am amazed at you, indeed, Will.

Will. Why, but, as I told you, brother, that is not all, Tom. No, is not that all? What then?

Will. No, nor half, for every night in the week we must read every one a chapter, and there our master tells us a long story of something or other about what we read, and asks us a great many foolish questions, that I can give no answer to; then every Sunday we are examined about what the minister said at church. I never heard of such blind doings. Why, how should I remember what he says? It may be I am at play without doors, or in the churchyard half the time.

Tom. Well, but, brother, you should not, you ought not to do so, you know that, I hope; and I suppose your

master puts you to remember what the minister says, that you may be obliged to stay, and hear him, as you should do. I think he is very kind to you. I wish I had such a master, Will.

Will. I don't value such kindness, let him be kind to me in other things.

Tom. Why, can any thing be kinder than to keep you from doing what you should not do, I mean playing in the fields or streets, or church-yard, all sermontime?

Will. Yes, I would fain have him let me go home every Sunday to my father's; that would be kind to me, but he won't let me do that.

Tom. Brother, that would not mend the matter; to be sure your father would take care you should go to church all the day, and to prayers again at night, and you say you cannot abide that.

Will. You are quite mistaken in my father, he is none of them. He goes to church himself, indeed; but he never troubles himself to hinder us, we may all go where we will for him. If he would but let me go home to my father, I should do well enough.

Tom. Well, nor don't your father call you to prayers at night?

Will. No, indeed, nothing like it, he knows better things.

Tom. What, nor on Sunday night neither?

Will. No, nor on Sunday night neither. Prayers! I dare say nobody ever heard my father say any prayers in his life, except when his horse fell on him, and broke his thigh, and every body thought he wonld have died, or must have had his thigh cut off; then he sent for the minister, indeed, and they had a deal of prayers in the chamber, I remember; but as soon as that was over, and my father was well again, he never troubled his head any more with it; what should he for? there was no need of it then, youknow.

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