"The Quakers have been urging [the "infamous London press"] on, underhanded. They have, I understand, been bribing it pretty deeply, in order to culumniate me, and to favour their own monopoly; but, thank God, the cunning knaves have outwitted themselves. They wont play at cards; but they will play at Stocks; they will play at Lottery Tickets, and they will play at Mark-lane. They have played a silly game, this time. Saint Swithin, that good old Roman Catholic Saint, seemed to have set a trap for them: he went on wet, wet, wet, even until the harvest began. Then, after two or three day's sunshine, shocking wet again. The ground soaking, the wheat growing, and the'Friends;' the gentle Friends, seeking the Spirit, were as busy amongst the sacks at Mark-lane as the devil in a high wind. In short they bought away, with all the gain of Godliness, and a little more, before their eyes. All of a sudden, Saint Swithin took away his clouds; out came the sun; the wind got round to the East; just sun enough and just wind enough; and as the wheat ricks every where rose up, the long jaws of the Quakers dropped down; and their faces of slate became of a darker hue. That sect will certianly be punished, this year; and, let us hope, that such a change will take place any rate; for, at present, their sect is a perfect monster in society; a whole sect, not one man of whom earns his living by the sweat of his brow. Asect a great deal worse than the Jews; for some of them do work. However, God send us the eaterly wind, for another fortnight, and we shall certainly see some of this sect at work."