language of his soul.
He remembers the sufferings of
divine philanthropy, but uses neither wafer nor cup. He trains up his children to fear God, but never sprinkles them with baptismal water.
He ceases from labor on the first day of the week, for the ease of creation, and not from reverence for a holiday.
is a pilgrim on earth, and life is but the ship that bears
him to the haven; he mourns in his mind for the departure of friends by respecting their advice, taking care of their children, and loving those that they loved; and this seems better than outward emblems of sorrowing.
His words are always freighted with inno-
cence and truth; God, the searcher of hearts, is the
witness to his sincerity; but kissing a book or lifting a hand is a superstitious vanity, and the sense of duty cannot be increased by an imprecation.
distrusts the fine arts; they are so easily perverted to the purposes of superstition and the delight of the senses.
Yet, when they are allied with virtue, and express the nobler sentiments, they are very
sweet and refreshing.
The comedy, where, of old, Aristophanes
excited the Athenians to hate Socrates
, and where the profligate gallants of the court of Charles II.
assembled to hear the drollery of Nell Gwyn
heap ridicule on the Quakers, was condemned without mercy.
But the innocent diversions of society, the delights of rural life, the pursuits of science, the study of history, would not interfere with aspirations after God.
For apparel, the Quaker
dresses soberly, according to his condition and education; far from prescribing an unchanging fashion, he holds it ‘no vanity to use what the country naturally produces,’ and reproves nothing but that extravagance which ‘all sober men of all
sorts readily grant to be evil.’