“Ah, the old monks made that blunder,” saith Father, “and thought they could live with souls only, or well-nigh so. And there be scores of other that essay to live with nought but bodies. A man that starves his body is ill off, but a man that starves his soul is yet worser. No is it thus, Mynheer?”
Mynheer van Stuyvesant had come in while Father was a-speaking.
“Ah!” saith he, “there be in my country certain called Mennonites, that do starve their natures of yonder fashion.”
“Which half of them,—body or soul?” saith Father.
“Nay, I would say both two,” he makes answer. “They run right to the further end of every matter. Because they read in their Bibles that ‘in the multitude of words there wanteth not sin,’ therefore they do forbid all speech that is not of very necessity,—even a word more than needful is sin in their eyes. If you shall say, ‘Sit you down in that chair to your comfort,’ there are eight words more than you need. You see?—there are eight sins. ‘Sit’ were enough. So, one mouthful more bread than you need—no, no!—that is a sin. One drop of syrup to your bread—not at all! You could eat your bread without syrup. All that is joyous, all that is comfortable, all that you like to do—all so many sins. Those are the Mennonites.”
“What sinful men they must be!” saith Father.
“Good lack, Master Stuyvesant, but think you all those folks tarried in Holland?” saith Aunt Joyce. “Marry, I could count you a round dozen I have met in this country. And they be trying, I warrant you. My fingers have itched to shake them ere now.”
“How do they serve them when they would get them wed?” saith Father. “Quoth Master John to Mistress Bess, ‘Wed me’ and no more?—and saith she, ‘Ay’ and no more? A kiss, I ween, shall be a sin, for ’tis no wise necessary.”
I could not help to laugh, and so did Aunt Joyce and Mother.
“Wed!” makes answer Mynheer, “the Mennonites wed? Why, ’tis the biggest of all their sins, the wedding.”