2-1-35. No assembly, by reason of the outrageous wind and hail, excepting Sister Rumble, with a new original poem, called “The Moral Gipsy.” The which she did read forth from the chair to my humble self and family, and our serving-man, Simon Dunny. [Illustration: HOPE DEFERRED.] 5. Friend Broadbent read forth, in part, an Essay on Innocent Jocularity; the which, in sundry passages, provoked dissentients, as tending to a defence of levity. A stiff debate thereon, in which all the brethren were agreeable to censure. Great merriment at Friend Sexton in his rebuking, saying, “Christian gravy,” instead of gravity, by a slip of the tongue. 9. The remains of Innocent Jocularity brought on again in a decidedly grave way, and nothing savouring of offensive. Followed with silence. 12. There were not sufficient friends to make a sitting, and no chair. [Illustration: “IT CAN’T BE HELPED.”] 16. At Sister Rumble’s by course of rotation. No other member present, save mine own self, as by duty bound. A deplorable falling away from the cause. Whereof more hereafter. * * * * * The Record here breaks off. The society probably did not proceed farther, but died on the spot, of a complication of Innocent Jocularity and Sister Rumble, and was buried tacitly, with the fair Ruth Mumford for its chief mourner. The other papers are in verse, and a reading of them will certainly persuade the reviewers that they were premature in applying the designation of “Quaker Poetry” to foregone lays and lyrics. The first is a genuine brown study after nature; the second a hint how Peace ought _not_ to be proclaimed. SONNET. BY R. M. HOW sweet thus clad, in Autumn’s mellow Tone, With serious Eye, the russet Scene to view! No Verdure decks the Forest, save alone The sad green Holly, and the olive Yew. The Skies, no longer of a garish Blue, Subdued to Dove-like Tints, and soft as Wool, Reflected show their slaty Shades anew In the drab Waters of the clayey Pool. Meanwhile yon Cottage Maiden wends to School, In Garb of Chocolate so neatly drest, And Bonnet puce, fit object for the Tool, And chasten’d Pigments, of our Brother West; Yea, all is silent, sober, calm, and cool, Save gaudy Robin with his crimson Breast. LINES ON THE CELEBRATION OF PEACE. BY DORCAS DOVE. AND is it thus ye welcome Peace, From Mouths of forty-pounding Bores? Oh cease, exploding Cannons, cease! Lest Peace, affrighted, shun our shores! Not so the quiet Queen should come; But like a Nurse to still our Fears, With Shoes of List, demurely dumb, And Wool or Cotton in her Ears! She asks for no triumphal Arch; No Steeples for their ropy Tongues; Down, Drumsticks, down, She needs no March, Or blasted Trumps from brazen Lungs.