I think almost any lady, who knows the magical value of bits of trimming, and bows of ribbon judiciously adjusted in critical locations, of inserting, edging, and embroidery, considered as economic arts, must acknowledge that there is some force in the young lady’s opinion.  Nevertheless the Doric simplicity of a Quaker lady’s dress, who is in circumstances to choose her material, has a peculiar charm.  As at present advised, the Quaker ladies whom I have seen very judiciously adhere to the spirit of plain attire, without troubling themselves to maintain the exact letter.  For instance, a plain straw cottage, with its white satin ribbon, is sometimes allowed to take the place of the close silk bonnet of Fox’s day.

For my part, while I reverence the pious and unworldly spirit which dictated the peculiar forms of the Quaker sect, I look for a higher development of religion still, when all the beautiful artistic faculties of the soul being wholly sanctified and offered up to God, we shall no longer shun beauty in any of its forms, either in dress or household adornment, as a temptation, but rather offer it up as a sacrifice to Him who has set us the example, by making every thing beautiful in its season.

As to art and letters, I find many of my Quaker friends sympathizing in those judicious views which were taken by the society of Friends in Philadelphia, when Benjamin West developed a talent for painting, regarding such talent as an indication of the will of Him who had bestowed it.  So I find many of them taking pleasure in the poetry of Scott, Longfellow, and Whittier, as developments of his wisdom who gives to the human soul its different faculties and inspirations.

More delightful society than a cultivated Quaker family cannot be found:  the truthfulness, genuineness, and simplicity of character, albeit not wanting, at proper times, a shrewd dash of worldly wisdom, are very refreshing.

Mrs. W. and I went to the studio of Hervey, the Scotch artist.  Both he and his wife received us with great kindness.  I saw there his Covenanters celebrating the Lord’s Supper—­a picture which I could not look at critically on account of the tears which kept blinding my eyes.  It represents a bleak hollow of a mountain side, where a few trembling old men and women, a few young girls and children, with one or two young men, are grouped together, in that moment of hushed prayerful repose which precedes the breaking of the sacramental bread.  There is something touching always about that worn, weary look of rest and comfort with which a sick child lies down on a mother’s bosom, and like this is the expression with which these hunted fugitives nestle themselves beneath the shadow of their Redeemer; mothers who had seen their sons “tortured, not accepting deliverance”—­wives who had seen the blood of their husbands poured out on their doorstone—­children with no father but God—­and bereaved old men, from whom, every child had been rent—­all gathering for comfort round the cross of a suffering Lord.  In such hours they found strength to suffer, and to say to every allurement of worldly sense and pleasure as the drowning Margaret Wilson said to the tempters in her hour of martyrdom, “I am Christ’s child—­let me go.”