His mouth was as precise as a lawyer's, and altogether he was a very whimsical, dry fellow to find at a Virginian port.
The Receiver called me to him and asked after a matter which we had spoken of before.

Then he made me known to his companion, who was a Mr.
Fairweather, a merchant out of Boston.
"The Lord hath given thee a pleasant dwelling, friend," said the stranger, snuffling a little through his nose.
From his speech I knew that Mr.Fairweather was of the sect of the Quakers, a peaceable race that Virginia had long ill-treated.
"The land is none so bad," said the Receiver, "but the people are a perverse generation.

Their hearts are set on vanity, and puffed up with pride.

I could wish, Mr.Fairweather, that my lines had fallen among your folk in the north, where, I am told, true religion yet flourisheth.

Here we have nothing but the cold harangues of the Commissary, who seeketh after the knowledge that perisheth rather than the wisdom which is eternal life." "Patience, friend," said the stranger.