A solemn stranger met me in the suburbs the other day, and said:
“Good morning, your reverence. Preach in the stone church yonder, no doubt?”
“No, I don’t. I’m not a preacher.”
“Really, I beg your pardon, Captain. I trust you had a good season. How much oil”—
“Oil? What do you take me for? I’m not a whaler.”
“Oh, I beg a thousand pardons, your Excellency.
“Major General in the household troops, no doubt? Minister of the Interior, likely? Secretary of war? First Gentleman of the Bed-chamber? Commissioner of the Royal”—
“Stuff! I’m no official. I’m not connected in any way with the Government.”
“Bless my life! Then, who the mischief are you? what the mischief are you? and how the mischief did you get here, and where in thunder did you come from?”
“I’m only a private personage—an unassuming stranger—lately arrived from America.”