The slowest of trains, or a journey along winding lanes (if you know the way), will bring you to Loxwood, the headquarters the Dependent Brethren, This little sect, described in the "Daily Mail," is to be found in North West Sussex—and in other countries, too, for that matter. About four times a year the 1,000 members meet together at Loxwood as one big family.
Since John Sirgood, 2 London shoemaker, founded the society in 1850 the true Dependent has altered little. The world he lives in is practically his own. To get to Lox-wood you go through miles of thickly wooded country, with a field here and there shining with celandines and crimson poppies; and the lane you are following is an arcade of greenery.
In the middle of this little paradise, hidden so completely that it makes one think that a fairy whisks it away at will, is Loxwood, boasting one inn und a population of about 700.
business matter, however urgent, is allowed to come before meetings, as they call their services. Yet they are prosperous, and the little row of shops pay well.
Tuetr Views ox Marniace.
To the visitor the most remarkable thing about this community is their attitude towards marriage. In the words of Mr. Henry Aylward, and elder, "they have nothing to do with it." There are, in consequence, very few children in the faith.
"We consider that if a person is ied he has no time to give to n,"" he observed, with quiet conviction. "Mind you, we don't prevent our people from getting married—but they must get. married outside. We have nothing to do with it. We believe that religion does not come as a natural thing; people are not born into it."
Sundays are very busy days. There are meetings from 10 till 1. 2.30 to 4 and 5.30 to 8 o'clock, and everyone attends all three. Many walk six or seven miles to Loxwood on a Sunday, and they take their midday meal with them and eat it in or near the little chapel.
There is not a single ornament in the chapel, and the meetings are without masic, for the sect contend that_a true believer does not require music or art in any form. For flowers, too, they have no use.
"This is our graveyard," said Mr. Aylward as we came out of the chapel.
"No tombstones?" I asked. "What use are tombstones?" he
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.