FACTS ABOUT CELEBRATED MEN. 
and, as I anticipated, I was severely censured by 
not a few well meaning friends. Some con¬ 
tended that no woman was justifiable in wear¬ 
ing male attire on any pretext whatever; some 
had no particular objection to the masculine 
dress, but did not. like to see their minister’s 
daughter so eager to adopt it; while others 
thought that,because ministers habitually dressed 
in black, it would have been more appropriate 
for me to have chosen that color for my suit, 
instead of blue and bull'with bright gilt buttons. 
I listened deferentially to these objections, but 
continued to xccar my suit. The opposition 
gradually died out. Certainly I can conceive 
no reason why a clergyman’s daughter should 
not ride tn cavalier when other ladies in her 
neighborhood do so. Nor can any good reason 
be given why a clergyman's daughter should 
not dress for riding like other ladies, in “a 
blue doth dress coat and bull cassimere vest, 
both trimmed with plain flat gilt buttons, Sblid- 
colorod cassimere pantaloons and black stove¬ 
pipe bah” Having worn this suit three or four 
times a week, for more than two months past, 
I take pleasure in giving it ray hearty commen¬ 
dation. I always don it with pleasure, and dot! 
it with regret, Iu the language of Miss Little, 
it is “eminently genteel and elegant;” and I 
will add that the gilt buttons (remember they 
are perfectly plain, and flat, and exquisitely 
polished) are so incomparably beautiful that I 
have fully made up my miud never to wear any 
other kind. 
Miss Little, I think, gives undue importance 
to the opinions of certain newspaper writers 
who find fault with clergymens’ daughters for 
adopting this riding dress. Local editors are 
proverbially a gossiping tribe, and a good 
deal of what they say is not worth minding. I 
have myself been honored with a “firsErate 
notice,” in which the ‘‘local” sandwiched my 
full name between “pantaloons” and “gilt but¬ 
tons” iu the most audacious manner possible. 
It was merely a piece of pleasautry not worth 
getting angry about 
Nearly all the opposition to the dress comes 
from our own sex. So far as my personal 
knowledge extends, the gentlemen cordially 
favor the reform, and yield all their claims to 
the “blue and buff and gilt buttons” with a 
generosity rbat does them infinite honor. A 
young lady of my acquaintance, a strict member 
of the church, was originally pre-eminent in de¬ 
nouncing the ridlug suit. Her objections were 
based on what she believed to be sound scrip¬ 
tural grounds; but on becoming convinced of 
her error, she at once adopted the dress. She 
now rides out in it almost daily, and is con¬ 
sidered to tie the most Ores*)/ and best-looking 
of all our lady equestrians. 
As this equestrian reform is a matter of gene¬ 
ral interest, 1 hope all ladies who have anything 
to suggest in furtherance of the cause, will favor 
the public with their views through the columns 
of the Rural Nkw-Yokker. 
Harriet Newell Chapix. 
East Lee, Nov. 23,1863. 
Some literary men make good men of busi¬ 
ness. According to Pope, the principal object 
of Shakspeare, in cultivating literature, was to 
secure an honest independence. He succeeded 
so well in the accomplishment of this purpose, 
that, at a comparatively early age, he had real¬ 
ized a sufficient competency to enable him to 
retire to hia native towa of Stratford-upon- 
Avon. Chancer was in early life a soldier, and 
afterwards a commissioner of customs and in¬ 
spector of woods and crown lands. Spenser was 
secretary to the Lord Deputy of Irelaud, and is 
Baid to have been shrewd and sagacious in the 
management of affairs. Milton was secretary to 
the Council of State during the Commonwealth, 
and gave abundant evidence of his energy and 
usefulness in that office. Sir Isaac Newton was 
a roost efficient Master of the Mint Words¬ 
worth was a distributor of stamps, and Sir Wal¬ 
ter Scott, clerk to the Court of Sessions—both 
uniting a genius for poetry with punctual habits 
as men of business. 
Ricardo was no less distinguished as a saga¬ 
cious banker than a lucid expounder of the 
principles of political economy. Grote, the 
most profound historian of Greece, is also a 
London banker. John Stuart Mill, not sur¬ 
passed by any living thinker in profoundness of 
speculation, lately retired from the examiner’s 
department in the Last India Company, with the 
admiration of his colleagues for the rare ability 
with which he had conducted the business of the 
department Alexander Murray, the distin¬ 
guished linguist, learned to write by scribbling 
his letters on an old card with the end of a burnt 
heather-stem. Professor Moore, when a young 
man, beingtoo poor to purchase Newton’s “Prin- 
cipla,” borrowed the book, and copied the whole 
of it with his own hand. William Cobbett made 
himself master of English grammar when he 
was a private soldier on the pay of sixpence a 
day. The edge of his berth, or that of Mb 
guard’s bed, was his seat to study in; a bit of 
board lying on bis lap was his writing-table; and 
the evening light of the. lire his substitute for 
candle or oil. Even advanced age, in many 
interesting cases, has not proved fatal to literary 
success. 
Sir Henry Spelman was between fifty and 
sixty when he began the study of science. 
Franklin was fifty before he fully engaged in the 
researches in natural philosophy which have 
made his name immortal. Boccacio was thirty- 
five when he entered upon his literary career; 
and Alfieri was forty-six when be commenced 
the study of Greek. Dr. Arnold learned Ger¬ 
man at, forty, for the sake of reading Niebuhr in 
the original. James Watt, at about the same 
age, while workiiig at his trade of an instrument 
maker in Glasgow, made himself acquainted 
with French, German and Italian, in order to 
peruse the valuable works in tboHe languages on 
mechanical philosophy. Handel was forty-eight 
before he published any of his great works. 
Nor are the examples of rare occurrence in 
which apparently natural defects, in early life, 
have been overcome by a subsequent devotion 
to knowledge. Sir Isaac Newton, when at, 
school, stood at the bottom of the lowermost 
form but one. Barrow, the great English divine 
aud mathematician, when a boy at the Charter- 
house school, was notorious for his idleness and 
indifference to study. Adam Clark, in his boy¬ 
hood. was proclaimed by his father to be a 
grievous dunce. Even Dean Swift made a dis¬ 
astrous failure at the university. Sheridan was 
presented by his mother to a tutor as au incor¬ 
rigible dunce. Walter Scott was a dull boy at 
his lessons, and wMle a student at Edinburgh 
University, received bis sentence from Professor 
Dalzell, the celebrated Greek scholar, that 
“dunce be was, and dunce he would remain.” 
Chat ter ton was returned on his mother's hands, 
as “a fool of whom nothing could be made.” 
Wellington never gave any indications of talent 
until he was brought into the field of practical 
effort, and was described by his strong-minded 
mother, who thought him little better than an 
idiot, as fit only to be “food for powder.” 
THY WILL BE DONE 
Written for Moore's Kural New-Yorker, 
SPIRITS OF THE PINE. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
MUSINGS. 
BT JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
BY FRANK YOLTUS. 
"We see not, know not; all our way 
Is night,—with Thee alone is day; 
From out the torrent's troubled drift, 
Above the storm our prayers we lift, 
Thy will be done I 
The flesh may fail, the heart may faint, 
But who are we to make complaint, 
Or dare to plead in times like these, 
The weakness of our love of ease f 
Thy will be done! 
We take with solemn thankfulness 
Our Burden up nor ask it less, 
And count it joy that even we 
May suffer, serve or wait for Thee, 
Whose will be done ! 
Though dim as yet in tint and line, 
We trace Thy picture's wise design, 
And thank thee that our age supplies 
Its dark relief of sacrifice, 
Thy will be done 1 
And if in our umvortbincfs, 
Thy sacrificial wine we press; 
If from Thy ordeal’s heated bars 
Our feet are seamed with crimson scars, 
Thy will he done f 
If, for the age to come, this hour 
Of trial hath vicarious power, 
And blest by Thee, our present pain 
Be liberty’s eternal gain, 
Thy will be done I 
Strike, Thon the master, we Thy keys, 
The anthem of the destinies 1 
The minor of Thy loftier strain, 
Our hearts shall breath the old refrain, 
Thy will be done I 
I rested in a grove of pines, 
Where Dryads whispered to the leaves 
Of things which chilled me, like the chimes 
Of funeral bells, or as the rhymes 
A sorc erer chants o’er spells he weaves. 
They whispered tile* of heart strings broken 
By careless hands in idle hour; 
Of misery, thirsting for the token 
Of sympathetic feelings, spoken 
Iu kindly words of magic power. 
Of olden sins the lapse of ages 
Has shrouded in a pall of years, 
Of mysteries dark, which hoary sages 
Have sought, in vain, to delve from pages 
In Nature's book of smiles arid tears. 
The sad wind seemed a spirit grieving 
In pity o'er our erring race,— 
O'er severed tics, now past retrieving, 
And broken trust, a canker leaving 
Where laurel wreath* should win a place. 
“Oh I broken wreath*,'" I cried, “and faded! 
How long will winds bemoan your fate ? 
How long will our bright fame be shaded, 
While panting millions toil, degraded, 
With breaking hearts, and smothered hate I” 
My listening heart e'en hushed Its beating 
A* its vain question ent the air; 
And as it ’rose, sad, and entreating, 
I nhuddered that it met no greeting 
From shades of blackne** gathered there. 
And in that grove Of cluttering pine 
Where whupering spirits kept each tree, 
I owned a nameless terror mine, 
As If I listened to the chime 
Of midnight bells in hours of glee. 
New Berlin, N. Y., 1868. 
O beautiful is morning—when the clouds 
Wear the first blush of crimson on their edge, 
Birds warble wildly sweet, and pour their song 
In notes of melody that reach each heart, 
And waken soft music from it* strings. 
Oh I how the pulse hound* free, and heart-hopes wake 
Anew, and raouut to fancy's fairy realm, 
Making the bright ideal—real seem. 
Each murmur tone is but the echo sweet 
Of joyful numbon trilled within one heart. 
O, morning tnnriti I bow from off the soul 
It lifts the weight of care, and gently binds 
Hope’s golden chain about u* with soft hand, 
’Till on we look into the Future, for, 
Seeing but flowers, and sunshine waiting there. 
Would Us bright charm might last forever,— 
That the sweet morning song might never cease,— 
That with the risitig sun no cloud* might rise, 
Upon the sunlight, shadow ne'er might fall; 
Or o’er the heart, uo chill, rndc breath might blow. 
But this i* not for Karth. The glorious tun, 
In morning brightness, often is obscured, 
And storm clouds angrily o'er*weep the sky. 
Anon, they all will pass, the soft wind blow, 
The grove send forth its music sweet a* erst, 
Aud sunlight gild the earth with golden glow. 
8o, on the heart, will 'all life's crushing Ills 
Until it bend* beneath their leaden w eight, 
’Till over it, there hang* in all it* gloom, 
The pall of chill despair. But even then, 
Hope-rays will penetrate, and light their torch 
Upon its sacred altar. Then, again, 
A peaceful calm will come, like evening dew 
On flower—and the crush’d heart revive, 
And light will dawn - yet softened and subdued, 
Like daylight, or the idlrery, lair young moon 
And amid all—our joy* and sorrows too,— 
We cling—yes. wildly cling to tlico, 0 F.arth. 
Some bloom of F.dcn rest* upon thee yet, 
And voices sweetly whisper ’mid thy bowers 
Of a fair, *unlc*a land, where falls no shade, 
Or sigh, or tear, and blighted hopes are Dot, 
But “ friend meets friend, and kindred hearts are blest.” 
Chenango Co , N. Y., 1863. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
DEATH, 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ART OF SEEING. 
“Death is the crown of life 1 
Here death denied, poor man would live in vain — 
Death wounds to cure ; we fall, —we rise, — we reign I” 
Walk with me to the churchyard. There we 
number the graves of the loved ones. Wo fol¬ 
lowed them to the dark river, but were not per¬ 
mitted to enter Its cold waters. We murmur at 
a wise Providence, but must bow beneath the 
rod. We leave the silent city and go homeward, 
thinking how mysterious is death,—yes, death is 
a my stery. One by one the problems of life have 
been solved, but the learned of all ages have 
failed to unfold its mysteries. As little is known 
concerning death now as when it entered the 
world. In vain we try to penetrate the unknown. 
We think of life with joyous hearts, but when 
thinking of deulh wo are sad. Death is an un¬ 
welcome guest; ho summons the dwellers of the 
lordly palace ami the humble cottage. Wealth, 
oi' any power of earth, cannot drive him from the 
door. Kind friends are taken from ns with 
whom we hoped to spend a life of happiness; no 
deeds of love, no tears of anguish, can make 
their stay longer with us; but as the “silver 
cord is loosed” our bright hopes are forever 
buried. Death often takeB the fairest flowers as 
they commence to bloom on earth, aud trans¬ 
plants them to a more genial clime, where they 
may forever bloom in heavenly beauty. But 
why do we fear to die? If our probation has 
been well spent, death will be only the entrance 
to a higher, holier life that will never end; and 
time can never diminish its glories. Then, ought 
we not to scorn the pleasures of earth, looking 
forward to those unending joys; and while we 
seek not earthly honors, yet it may be GUI's to 
woar never-fading crowns adorned with many a 
gem. May our trust be firm and hope bright 
when the night of death comes. Annie. 
Genesee, N. Y., 1863. 
Manifold are the lessons which Nature has 
in store for those who approach her with love 
and reverence. But it is only to those who are 
willing to sit at her feet in humility, that she 
deigns to reveal her true glory. She never 
asserts herself, —the eye must be trained to 
behold her beauty, and the ear attuned to her 
harmonies. Born heirs to infinite treasures of 
natural beauty, we care not to enter upon the 
enjoyment of our possessions; living daily wit- 
nesses of the glory of earth and sky, we are as 
they who having eyes see not; occupied with 
vague yearnings for the unattainable, we regard 
not the undeveloped resources for enjoyment 
constantly within our reach. “ There i8 not a 
moment of any day of our lives, when nature Is 
not producing scene after scene, picture after 
picture, glory after glory, and working still upon 
such exquisite and constant principles of the 
most perfect beauty, that it is quite certain it is 
all done for us, and intended for our perpetual 
pleasure. And every man, wherever placed, 
however far from other sources of interest or of 
beauty, has this doing for him constantly.” 
And too often ho knows it not.. Engaged in 
eager pursuit of things that perish with the 
using, he neglects those which might become to 
him a joy forever. 
Not the least insensible to all this magnificence 
and beauty wMcb clothe the earth as with a 
garment, are those who, placed in circumstances 
of constant familiarity with nature in her secret 
haunts and varying moods, might be supposed 
her most devoted worshipers. The man who 
holds most intimate “ communion with her visi¬ 
ble forms” is too apt net to be the one who was 
cradled in her bosom. To him the “various 
language” wMcb she speaks is often unintelligi¬ 
ble. Alas! that this should be so. I would that 
every larmer in the land were altogether master 
of his possessions; that his acres might yield 
him not corn and potatoes only, but spiritual 
blessings likewise; that hl» yearly thanksgiving 
might go up, not for abundant harvests of grain 
and fruit, but for beauties new every morning 
and fresh every evening; that Mb goodly heri¬ 
tage of green pastures might afford him those 
lessons oi' consolation, of warning or reproof, 
which the good Creator has hidden in every 
flower of the field and every weed by the way- 
side. 
See to it ye whose lines are fallen in pleasant 
places, that ye neglect not this “duty of delight.” 
Thai when ye are called to render your account 
of the treasure committed to your keeping, ye 
receive not the sentence of unfaithful stewards 
in that ye have despised God's best, gifts, aud 
left to lie waste and desolate that part of your 
nature which they were designed to refine and 
purify. Be assured that He whose works are. 
never purposeless, has not given to the sunset 
sky its exquisite tinting, to each flower its won¬ 
derful perfection of coloring, to every tree a 
grace and beauty all its own, without designing 
that they should be to us perpetual sources of 
instruction and delight. He speaks to us no 
less ia the trickling rill, the murmuring breeze, 
and the myriads of still, small voices, than in 
the rushing, roaring cataract, the thundergust or 
the hurricane. 
Among the many “desperate sciences” which 
go to make up what is called a “finished educa¬ 
tion,” this “science of seeing'’ what is contin¬ 
ually before us has never found a place. And 
yet, in no direction is presented a field which 
would more richly repay caref ul cultivation, or 
yield richer or rarer fruits, ever fresh and inex¬ 
haustible. E. A. Eaton. 
Eatonville, N. Y., 1863. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A PLEA FOR THE LITTLE GIRLS 
There is one great evil which all sensible 
people would be glad to see remedied, and that 
is, the fashion of the dress of little girls. Until 
it is, we need not hope for much improvement in 
the health of our women; ami we might add 
morals, for physical science teaches us that good 
sound characters and morals arc more often than 
we suppose the result of normal physical condi¬ 
tion. What brilliant hope can there be for the 
mental and physical future of that little girl who 
is clothed after the prevailing fashions of dress, 
for the last ten years, or more? All of her 
clothes arc worn without any support from the 
shoulders—hanging and dragging down on her 
Mps and bowels, causing premature weakness 
and excitement of vital organs, and no wonder 
when she comes to womanhood, and especially 
motherhood, she is full of chronic ailments, and 
too often a confirmed invalid. 
Few mothers seem to be aware of the immense 
importance of clothing little girls properly and 
warmly. Yes, they need sufficient clotMng to 
keep them warm in cool aud cold weather, else 
the blood ia not kept iu proper circulation, and 
any constitutional weakness, or tendencies to 
disease, will rapidly develop in unfavorable aud 
morbid conditions of the body. And it is such 
an absurdity to leave the neck, arms and legs of 
a child almost bare, and put the weight of the 
clothes where least needed,—on the waist and 
abdomen. 
How my heart aches for the daughters of those 
careless, procrastinating mothers, who not only 
poorly clothe them, but allow the miserable 
apologies lor waists to their under-clothes to go 
buttonless, strapless und stringless, even com¬ 
pelling them to wear ragged, untidy garments 
till they get used to their slipshod, wretched ha¬ 
biliments. Girls treated thus, must, almost in¬ 
evitably, make careless, untidy housekeepers, 
and thus scatter sorrow aud trouble broadcast 
Poverty cannot often plead an excuse for such 
things. More often is it the want of thrift and 
true economy, und the indulgence of slovenly 
habits. 0, mothers! be wise in season—be care¬ 
ful of your little girls. They will be women 
soon, and encounter the trials of life. If you 
would shield and preserve them make them lit 
for their position. Take core of their health. 
Keep their feet and arms warm. Put good, 
warm, and sufficient under-clothing on them, and 
hang them on their shoulders. You think they 
are dear to you. Prove h by your care of them. 
Do not let them shiver and cough all winter. 
And remember, their future happiness or misery 
will reflect and react upon yourselves. 
Queechy. 
A WORD TO MOTHERS 
Each mother is a historian. She writes not 
the history of empires or of nations on paper, but 
she writes her own history on the imperishable 
mind of her cMld. That tablet and that history 
will remain indelible when time shall be no more. 
That history each mother shall meet again, and 
read with eternal joy or unutterable grief iu the 
coming ages of eternity. This thought should 
weigh on the mind of every mother, and render 
her deeply circumspect, and prayerful, and 
faithful in her solemn work of training up her 
cliildren for heaven and immortality. 
The minds of children are very susceptible, 
easily impressed. A word, a look, a frown may 
engrave an Impression on the mind of a child 
which no lapse of time can efface or wash out. 
You walk along the sea shore when the tide is 
out, and you form characters, or write words or 
names in the smooth, white sand wMcb is spread 
at your feet according as your fancy may dictate; 
but the returning tide shull in a few hours wash 
out and efface all that you have written. Not so 
the lines and characters of truth or error which 
your conduct imprints on the mind of your child. 
There you write impressions lor the everlasting 
good or ill of your child, which neither the floods 
nor the storms of the earth can wash out, nor 
death's cold fingers erase, uor the slow moving 
ages of eternity obliterate. How careful, then, 
should each mother be of her treatment of her 
child! How prayerful, and how serious, and bow 
earnest to write the eternal truths of God on his 
mind, those truths which shall be his guide aud 
teacher when her voice shall be silent in death, 
and her lips no louger move iu prayer in his be¬ 
half, in commending her dear child to her cove¬ 
nant God !—Phrenological Journal. 
THE CHRISTIAN IN THE WORLD 
A true Christian living in the world is like a 
ship sailing on the ocean. It is not the ship 
being in the water which will sink it, but the 
water getting into the ship. So in the like man¬ 
ner the Christian is not ruined by living in the 
world, which he must needs do, wMle he re¬ 
mains in the body, but by the world living in 
him. 
The world in the heart has ruined millions of 
immortal souls. How careful are mariners in 
guarding against leakage, lest the water enter¬ 
ing into the vessel should, by imperceptible de¬ 
grees, cause the vessel to sink. And ought not 
the Christian to watch and pray, lest Satan and 
the world should find some unguarded inlet to 
his heart, and thus entering in bring him to 
destruction, both of body and mind. The world 
and the things of the world press upon us at all 
points. Our daily avocations, yea, our most 
lawful enjoyments, have need to be narrowly 
watched, lest they insensibly steal upon our 
affections, and draw away our hearts from God. 
MORNING DREAMS 
There are pretty sun risings, as we are told, 
and such like gauds, abroad in the world, in 
summer time especially, wMcb a gentleman may 
see, as they say, for getting up. We hold the 
good hours of the dawn too sacred to waste upon 
such observances; which have in them, besides, 
something Pagan and Persic. It is flattering to 
get the start of a lazy world; to conquer death 
by proxy in his image; but the seeds of sleep 
and mortality are in us; therefore, while the 
busy part of mankind are last huddling on their 
clothes, are already up and about their occupa¬ 
tions, content to have swallowed thoir sleep by 
the wholesale, we choose to linger a-bed and 
digest our dreams. We love to chew the cud of 
a foregone vision; to collect the scattered rays 
of a brighter pbantism, or act over again, with 
firmer nerves, the sadder nocturnal tragedies; 
to drag into daylight a struggling and half van¬ 
ishing nightmare; to handle and examine the 
terrors, or the airy solaces. We cherish dreams; 
we try to spell iu them the alphabet of the 
invisible world; and think we know already 
how it shall be with us. Those uncouth shapes, 
which, while we clung to flesh and blood, af¬ 
frighted us. have become familiar; we feel 
attenuated into their meager essences, and have 
given the hand of half-way approach to incor¬ 
poreal being. We once thought life to be some¬ 
thing, but it has unaccountably fallen from us 
before its time. Therefore, we choose to dally 
with visions. The sun has no purposes of ours 
to light us to—why should we get up l—Charles 
Lamb. _ __ 
Vi"• !a have we the covering of the eyes for, 
but to restrain cornipt glances, and to keep out 
their defiling impressions. 
THE JOYOUSNESS OF CHILDREN. 
Written for Moore’s Rural Now-Yorker. 
THE NEW EQUESTRIAN DRESS. 
Should they have anything else ? I can en¬ 
dure a melancholy roan, but not a melancholy 
child; the former, in whatever slough he may 
sink, can yet raise his eyes either to the kingdom 
of reason or of hope; bat the little child is en¬ 
tirely absorbed and weighed down by one black 
poison-drop of the present. Think of a child 
ted to the scaffold, think of Cupid in a Dutch cof¬ 
fin. or watch a butterfly after its four wings have 
been torn off. creeping like a worm, aud you will 
feel what I mean. Cheerfulness or joyousness is 
the heaven under which everything but poison 
thrives. Bnt let it not be confounded with en¬ 
joyments. Every enjoyment, even the refined 
one of a work of art, gives man a selfish mein, 
and withdraws it from sympathy; hence it is only 
a condilion of necessity, not of virtue. On the 
contrary, cheerfulness, the opposite of vexation 
and sadness, is at the ground and flower of vir¬ 
tue and its crown. Animals can enjoy; but only 
man can be cheerful.— Levana. 
Pleasures of Life.— The loftiest, the most 
angel-like ambition, is the earnest desire to con¬ 
tribute to the rational happiness and moral im¬ 
provement of others. If we can do this—if we 
can smooth the rugged path of one fellow-travel¬ 
er—if we can give one good impression, is it not 
better than all the triumphs that wealth and 
power ever attained? 
I have read the able article in the Rural 
New-Yorker of November 21st, from the pen 
of Miss Cornelia A. Little, maintaining the 
right of clergy men’s daughters, equally with other 
ladies, to patronize the new fashion of “riding on 
horseback astride, and in gentlemen’s apparel.” 
As a fashion of this kind could not well be intro¬ 
duced in any community without a general 
co-uporation of lady equestrians, it became 
necessary, in some places, for “ young ladies of 
clerical connections” to be among the first to 
adopt the fashion. This was precisely my owo 
case. Bearing the triple relation to clergymen 
of daughter, sister, and sister-in-law, I felt that 
in a matter which involved a radical change of 
Costume, it was my policy, if not my duty, to 
follow the lead of others, rather than to be a 
leader myself. Circumstances, however, forced 
me to be among the first to wear the new dress; 
We must not only not allow any corrupt com¬ 
munication at our tablps, such as hypocritical 
mockers at feasts , but we must go beyond com¬ 
mon harmless talk, and should take occasion 
from God's goodne>s to us at our table, to speak 
well of Him, and to learn to spiritualize common 
things .—Mallhew Henry. 
Good men have often been persecuted for 
doing that which even their persecutors, if they 
would give their consciences leave to speak out, 
could not but own to be lawful and good. 
O, what need have good men to take heed of 
pride, a corruption that arises out of the ashes of 
other corruption! 
