I like the Quaker speech: the gentle intimacy of their "little
language," with its quaint "thees" and "thous," and the curious turn
they give to their verbs, disregarding the formalities of grammar.
"Will thee go," "has thee seen," "does thee like"--that is the way they
speak it; an unjustifiable way, I know, but it sounds pleasantly. I
like the Quaker spirit and manners, at least as I have found them in my
friends: sober but not sad, plain but very considerate, genuinely
simple in the very texture of their thoughts and feelings, and not
averse to that quiet mirth which leaves no bitter taste behind it. One
thing that I cannot understand in Charles Lamb is his confession, in
the essay on "Imperfect Sympathies," that he had a prejudice against
Quakers. But then I remember that one of his best bits of prose is
called "A Quaker's Meeting," and one of his best poems is about the
Quaker maiden, Hester Savory, and one of his best lovers and companions
was the broad-brim Bernard Barton. I conclude that there must be
different kinds of Quakers, as there are of other folks, and that my
particular Friends belong to the tribe of Bernard and Hester, and their
spiritual ancestry is in the same line with the poet Whittier.

Yet even these four are by no means of one pattern. William is the
youngest of the group, but the oldest-fashioned Friend, still clinging
very closely to the old doctrines and the old ritual of silent
simplicity, and wearing the straight-cut, collarless coat, above which
his youthful face looks strangely ascetic and serene. I can imagine him
taking joyfully any amount of persecution for his faith, in the ancient
days; but in these tolerant modern times, he has the air of waiting
very tranquilly and with good humour for the world to see that the old
ways are the best, and to come round to them again.

Walter and Arthur are Young Quakers, men of their time, diligent in
business, fond of music and poetry, loyal to the society of their
fathers, but more than willing to see its outward manners and customs,
and even some of its ways of teaching, quietly modified to meet the
needs and conditions of the present. In appearance you could hardly
tell them from the world's people; yet I perceive that inwardly the
meeting-house has made its indelible mark upon them in a certain poise
of mind and restraint of temper, a sweet assurance of unseen things,
and a mind expectant of spiritual visitations.

Master Thomas, the leade